


Taking Risks

by DuWinter



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 78,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuWinter/pseuds/DuWinter
Summary: Written from the following prompt: Andy got a job at the New York Times instead of Runway. Nate never existed and Andy was actually into fashion. Andy could go freelance or be offered to write for Runway therefore introducing Miranda :)
Relationships: Lily/OFC - Relationship, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 78
Kudos: 572
Collections: 5 stars





	1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: For calliopedawn. I hope I get to the spirit of what you desired. I certainly had a good time writing to your prompt.
> 
> Setting: Slight AU, and set during the time-frame of the events of the movie.
> 
> Disclaimer:The novel The Devil Wears Prada (2003) was written by Lauren Weisberger and published by Broadway Books. The Film, made in 2006, was directed by David Frankel and produced by Wendy Finerman and Keren Rosenfelt. Ms. Weisberger's novel was adapted for the screen by Aline Brosh MeKenna. It starred our two favorite ladies, Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway. The Devil Wears Prada and it's characters do not belong to me. No profit being made here. I'm just playing with the characters for a short while and I promise to put them away neatly when I'm through.
> 
> Credit where credit is due: to associatedbears, who kindly volunteered to help and then who real life interfered with. You remain both a good friend and a star in my book! Also very special thanks to my wonderful Beta jazwriter. I appreciate your stepping up at the last minute and both your patience and valuable assistance. It is because of people with your heart and spirit that I someday might be a better writer.
> 
> Author's Note: This story was originally posted to my Live Journal page (DuWinter's Muse) between September 19th 2010 and May 07th 2012.
> 
> Comments: Comments feed the muse and the Muse is always hungry. Remember, a fat muse is a happy and productive muse. Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged.

Prologue  
  
February 2008  
  
Andy Sachs could not know that her future was set in motion before she'd ever set foot in New York City. It started with a war of words that began nearly a year before she ever had arrived in town. It had commenced with a verbal volley written in _The New York Times_ fashion column and had escalated from there. The battle raged between _The Times'_ top Style Section reporter, Danielle Gold, and the Devil in Heels herself, Editor-in-Chief of _Runway_ magazine.  
  
March 2009  
  
Following her dream, Andy left her two best friends in the world, Lily and Doug, in Cincinnati to become a journalist in the Big Apple. After saving money she earned throughout college and received as a graduation gift from her parents, Andy believed she would have sufficient funds to support herself until she could find gainful employment in her field. She didn't leave much behind other than her family and her friends, and soon both Lily and Doug would be making the transition to New York to follow their dreams. Thankfully, she didn't leave behind any romantic entanglements. Andy had been in love only once in her life, and her college relationship with her lesbian lover had ended badly a couple of years ago. Since then Andy hadn't really gotten back into the dating scene.  
  
May 2009  
  
Events that shape one's life often start out as random occurrences. Andy had been in New York for nearly two months and, even with contacting all of the seemingly endless number of newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses, nothing had developed as far as job prospects went. Andy's intentions were to become a journalist. However, with the downturn in printed newspapers across the country, most companies were laying-off rather than hiring. Magazines were little better. With no “professional” experience on her resume, apparently being Editor-in-Chief of a university newspaper didn't cut it as far as “experience” went in this town, she rarely got a call-back interview. Quite alone in the city, her savings quickly dwindled with the exorbitant cost of rent. It didn't help that Andy had always loved the world of fashion. Being in New York and having job interviews meant being able to dress properly. Dressing properly in New York City, to her mind, meant buying fashion as presented in the pages of her favorite magazine, _Runway_. And the stores in New York had such a selection that it took all of Andy's self control not to pauperize herself. Ramden noodle packs were quickly becoming the meal of necessity because they cost next to nothing.  
  
Andy had heard that Elias-Clark was looking for entry-level positions at two of their magazines, and in desperation she decided to go to their headquarters and present her resume. It was a chilly morning, and Andy hadn't yet found the perfect coat she wanted for fall weather within what was now her very limited fashion budget, so she decided to wear her Northwestern University sweatshirt. She'd fold it and hide it in her battered briefcase once she arrived in the lobby of the Elias-Clark building. No one would see anything but the Armani she wore underneath it. The suit was a classic, elegant, dark-charcoal fine-white pinstripe business suit, well-tailored and flattering to her womanly shape. Oh, granted it was last year's line, but if it hadn't been for the generous gift her parents had given her on graduation, she wouldn't have any of the several designer suits hanging in her closet.  
  
On the crowded subway ride, a middle-aged gentleman struck up a conversation, asking if her sweatshirt represented where she had attended college. He turned out to be a fellow Northwestern University grad, and in the nature of conversations about shared experiences, Andy discovered that he too, at one time years ago, had been Editor-in-Chief of the school paper. As she was on her way to what she hoped would be a job interview she had a representative sample of her best work with her. He said he'd like to see her writings and suggested they have a cup of coffee together. Andy, just being polite and not having a set appointment at Elias-Clark, agreed to accompany him. During that fateful cup of java, she discovered that he was now an editor at _The New York Times_ and had an open position in the copy-writing/fact-checking department. He told her he was impressed with her work. To Andy's delight, he hired her on the spot.  
  
August 2009  
  
From there, her career picked up speed like an out-of-control pedestrian in leather-soled shoes on a steep downhill patch of glazed ice. Two months of writing copy for other people's articles and Andy had begun to make a name for herself in the newsroom. She worked hard, had a sense of humor, and could string words together like nobody's business. She made the reporters she wrote for look good. She also had a good head on her shoulders, and through fact-checking she had saved the paper embarrassment and the necessity of printing retractions on more than a few occasions. She impressed her direct superiors, and they slated her for greater responsibility.

***

Chapter 1    
  
September 2009    
  
“Sachs!” Bellowed Jack Prentice, her direct superior in the copy department, from across the sea of cubicles. “My office!”  
  
Andy's head snapped up from the article she was fact-checking, and she stiffened as she always did when her boss yelled for her.  
  
Jack was blunt when telling you about your work, but Andy knew he was fair. Her thoughts went immediately to how she might have screwed something up. Her latest copy had been in on time and while, in her own opinion, it was not her best work--it was difficult to write a humorous review for a B-rated film you hadn't seen based on incomplete notes that the movie critic had scribbled in a dark movie theater and to make the resulting column laugh-out-loud funny-- it was certainly a passable effort. The reviewer whose article she had “punched-up” had even taken the trouble to send her a cup of decent coffee from one of the carts outside the building by way of thanks. She rose from the thousand words on the latest Mayoral speech she had been fact-checking and hurried across the newsroom to his office. She stood nervously in the doorway. “You wanted to see me Jack?” she asked.  
  
Jack looked up from his paper-littered desk. “Yeah,” he grunted. “What are you doing tonight?”  
  
Andy looked at him askance and glanced at the picture hanging on the office wall of Jack, his wife, and their six kids.  
  
Jack grinned. “That didn't come out right did it?” he asked.  
  
Andy relaxed a little. “I don't have any plans,” she smiled. “What do you need?” she asked.  
  
Jack shuffled through his desk and pulled out a folder from under the mounds of scattered paper. “Our fashion reporter, Danielle Gold, was taking a few days off and got herself trapped down in Miami. She was due back this morning, but a hurricane isn't allowing anything to fly, and communication with the area is sketchy. Phones are out, and e-mail is iffy. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is hosting a big fashion to-do tonight. Something they're calling “a retrospective of the last two centuries. Going to be lots of famous people there, the city's elite and lots of money. We need somebody to cover it. I recommended you to Karen Wilson, the Style Section Editor, because I figure with the way you dress at work every day, you must know something about fashion.”  
  
Andy felt excitement blossom in her chest. This was it! This was her big break! The Style Section and writing about something that she really cared about. Writing about fashion!  
  
Jack continued, now smiling openly. “Karen said you could run with it. Ticket, invitation, and background material are in this folder. We want twenty-five hundred words by Thursday night so it can appear in the Sunday Edition...”  
  
He paused for a moment, and Andy felt her insides tighten up. She had the feeling the other shoe was about to drop, and she had a pretty good idea what was coming. She schooled her facial features to not show her feelings. “There's a catch, isn't there?” she asked softly.  
  
Jack nodded, suddenly no longer smiling. “The article will appear under Danielle Gold's by-line, just as if she'd written it herself.”  
  
Andy nodded. _It would amaze the readers of this newspaper,_ she thought, _if they knew how much of what they read wasn't written by the reporters that get credit for it._ “Okay,” she replied, “twenty-five hundred words by press time Thursday,” accepting the folder from his outstretched hand.  
  
***  
  
Miranda Priestly, Editor-in-Chief of _Runway_ , sat musing at her office desk, located on the eleventh floor of the Elias-Clark building. She was just putting the final touches on her latest Letter from the Editor for the next edition to go to print and was searching for the perfect turn of phrase to humorously convey her utter contempt for what in her opinion (and that was, by God, the only opinion that mattered in the world of fashion) the extreme lack of taste displayed by _The New York Times'_ fashion columnist, Danielle Gold. The woman had no panache. No sense of style of her own. She parroted others' disparate ideas as if they were her own without really understanding them and had cobbled together a Frankenstein's monster concept of what fashion is about. Then she inflicted her created monstrosity on the reading public.  
  
Miranda was all too aware that most of the people who had an interest in fashion really didn't understand anything about it. They needed to be guided by a firm hand, one that would show them what risks were permissible. And make no mistake, Miranda understood that fashion was all about risk. About pushing the envelope and trying to create something new. Danielle Gold's perception did not allow for the evolution of fashion. Just like in the Darwinian concept of species evolution, fashion experienced jumps and starts while evolving. Danielle Gold's concept was that those designers flattering her the most were the ones most worthy of positive press, regardless of their talent. It was a concept that Miranda Priestly intended to eradicate.  
  
Miranda had joined in a war of words almost a year ago when the woman had sung the praises of a new designer during New York Fashion Week named Henri Glasser, a designer Miranda had panned as a no-talent after witnessing his pre-show run-through. Since then a few lines in each Letter from the Editor addressed the slew of attacks on Miranda's view of fashion as printed in Danielle Gold's many columns each month. The fact that fashion columnist's words went to press far more frequently than Miranda's did meant that for every word Miranda had devoted to this conflict Danielle Gold had a hundred printed. Miranda smiled a vulpine smile. It was fortunate that she was far more erudite than the misguided Ms. Gold. With carefully chosen words, Miranda got her message across and often left the _New York Time's_ fashion columnist figuratively frothing at the mouth in her printed columns for several days after the newest issue of _Runway_ hit the streets and Miranda's latest volley of bon mots became public.  
  
Miranda turned again to the work in progress before her. She'd sleep on what she wanted to say and finish it tomorrow morning. She turned in her chair and called out quietly for Emily, knowing that her First Assistant was out of the building taking care of some things for Miranda and that the only body in the outer office was the new girl whose name she hadn't bothered to learn yet. The Dragon Lady absently wondered whether this one would be smart enough to know it was she that Miranda was summoning or if her long suffering First Assistant would spend part of this afternoon explaining to HR that they needed to send down more resumes so that the search for yet another Second Assistant could begin again.  
  
***  
  
Andy stood on the edge of the red carpet just outside the MoMA building dressed in Ellie Saab. The champagne colored gown was a year out of date, and the form-fitting sheath-dress had been originally meant as a wedding dress when the designer presented it in her 2008 fashion bridal collection, but as soon as Andy had come across it at an upscale consignment shop, she’d had to own it. The raised sunburst design emanating from her left hip accentuated her shape, and the slit to her left hip allowed her to flash her shapely legs when she walked. The bust-line bodice left both her creamy shoulders and neck bare. This was the best evening gown Andy owned, and she was thrilled with the opportunity to wear it. She had finished her look by placing her luxurious brunette hair up in a tight bun and artfully applying make-up suitable for the evening. Now she waited with a gaggle of other print reporters and photographers as the “beautiful people” made their way down the red carpet and into the MoMA building. Flashes went off around her as the _Times'_ photographer stood just behind her doing his best to get pictures of everyone walking past their position. Andy had attempted to approach a few of the celebrities, but had been repeatedly rebuffed, as no one recognized her as associated with _The Times_ . She had resigned herself to reporting what she saw now and when the model's took to the catwalk.  
  
***  
  
The limo pulled up before the red carpet and the Devil in Heels stepped elegantly from it after the door had been opened for her by those receiving the event's celebrity guests. Nigel and Emily quickly flanked her as she stood for a moment at the end of the red carpet allowing the photographers to snap pictures of her in a magnificent Vera Wang gown. She looked about. Another of these interminable events like a thousand she'd been to before. She'd see little of interest here and nothing new. She sighed softly, all the while maintaining her professional smile for the gathered paparazzi. She began her stately walk down the red carpet toward the doors of the building. Reporters for newspapers, magazines, and television all calling out to her as she passed, hoping to get the publishing titan to say a few words. As her eyes scanned the sea of hopeful journalists, she caught the sight of something interesting. A brunette beauty, a six unless she missed her guess --and Miranda hadn't missed a guess about a woman's size in many a moon-- dressed in all things, an Ellie Saab wedding dress. Granted the gown was designed for someone with the girl's shape. Miranda allowed her eyes to linger for a moment and noticed the forlorn look on the girl's face, pad clutched in her hand. She had allowed other reporters to get in front of her, cutting her off from the red carpet and from the chance to get the few seconds these vultures of the entertainment, style, and gossip press needed to connect with the celebrities.  
  
Miranda paused on the red carpet to consider the crowd. She leaned back and spoke quietly as she nodded toward the subject of her interest. “Nigel, look at the woman in the Ellie Saab,” she said.  
  
Nigel glanced at the young brunette in the crowd and smirked. “Really?” he intoned, his tone mocking, “A wedding dress? And last season's no less.”  
  
Miranda smiled a cruel, crocodilian smile. “But she wears it well,” the Devil in Heels answered. She gave the slightest nodded towards Emily, who waited on her commands with the devotion of a nervous Pekingese and spoke. “I'll speak with that reporter briefly,” she said motioning discreetly toward the woman among the crowd of reporters.  
  
Emily looked shocked at Miranda’s decision to speak to a member of the press on the red carpet. Miranda could well understand why since she had never elected to do so during Emily’s tenure at Runway. Moreover, this journalist was certainly a nobody. Nevertheless, Miranda was pleased by Emily’s immediate “Yes, Miranda,” as she moved to obey the directive.  
  
***  
  
Andy was suddenly aware that the atmosphere around her changed. The air was charged as if all those seasoned celebrity watchers around her were expecting something. A frazzled red head pushed through the wall of reporters between her and the red carpet. The woman looked her up and down and then quite deliberately rolled her eyes. Andy was surprised when the woman addressed her.  
  
“She'll speak with you,” the red head said in an upper-crust English accent.  
  
Andy looked at her blankly. “Who will?” she asked.  
  
The red head looked at her with something akin to pity in her eyes. She shook her head and then nodded towards the woman on the carpet. She spoke slowly as if talking to a particularly dense child. “Don't you know who that is?” she almost screeched. “For God's sake, hurry up; she doesn't like to be kept waiting!”  
  
Andy glanced onto the red carpet and knew she was in trouble. There stood the one and only Miranda Priestly. The Ice Queen, the Dragon Lady, the Devil in Heels. The one woman everybody here wanted to talk to, and the one that no one here believed would stop long enough to give any of the gathered press the time of day. And apparently she wanted to talk with Andy. Andy glanced at the photographer that _The Times_ sent over with her, and he nodded encouragement. With a thousand eyes on her, she followed the red head through the murmuring line of reporters to stand in the presence of a legend. The walk felt like the longest one of Andy's life.  
  
Miranda waved Emily away as soon as her First Assistant had brought the young woman into her presence. Miranda's eyes devoured the girl before her. The dress, in her opinion, was somewhat out of place in this venue, but the way the woman flattered it could not be denied. Fashion was about risk, and this woman seemed to understand that. It was rare when Miranda found a kindred soul, and somehow she felt that this woman was one. Someone who understood what the secret of fashion was really about. “What network are you with?” she asked, the question couched carefully, seemingly bored, the proprieties being fully observed.  
  
“Ummmm,” Andy replied, trying to get her brain to work as Miranda's subtle perfume assaulted her senses. “I'm not with a network...I'm with _The New York Times_ .”  
  
Miranda stiffened and pursed her lips. “ _The Times_ ,” she said, her voice cold, suddenly distant.  
  
Andy nodded, “Yes, I'm here covering for our fashion columnist.  
  
“Danielle Gold,” Miranda said, ice crystals forming on the words.  
  
Andy swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, Ms. Priestly.” she said softly, knowing that she'd misstepped somehow but not understanding what she'd done to offend the woman on such short acquaintance.  
  
Miranda turned on her Louboutin heels and offered coldly over her shoulder, “I have _nothing_ to say to _The Times_ .” And with that, she strode away.  
  
Andy was left standing on the red carpet feeling the eyes of all her colleagues on her, laughing at her. She felt herself blush with shame. She had been given a golden opportunity, and somehow she'd messed it up. She moved back to her place in the line of reporters, ignoring the questions from the others about what Miranda had said to her during their brief encounter. She sighed and then refocused herself. She was here to do a job, and she was going to do it.  
  
***  
  
Miranda sat in the blessed silence of the back of the limo with her eyes closed. Nigel had been dropped off at his apartment and Emily, who sat across from her, knew better than to speak unless spoken to. The fashion retrospective had been a disappointment, but then again retrospectives always were. For most of the last twenty years she had been the major voice in determining what was considered fashionable. Her's was the only opinion that mattered. Before her reign as the Ice Queen of the fashion world she had cut her teeth on what had come before. She knew all of it intimately. Fashion was about risk, about change. A retrospective showed the past, and Miranda knew that the past was as dead and gone as her marriage to her soon-to-be ex-husband, Stephen. Consciously turning her mind away from the disappointments of the past, she moved in her musings to things she had found interesting. The girl in the Ellie Saab flashed before her mind's eye. What was the girl's name? For the life of her, she couldn't remember. And she had waved Emily off, wanting the moment with the beautiful woman to herself, so she couldn't blame Emily for not knowing. She smiled a small smile to herself and spoke without opening her eyes. “Emily,” she said.  
  
“Yes Miranda?” Emily asked tremulously.  
  
  
“We had a photographer on the red carpet this evening?” The icon asked, already knowing full well that Runway placed a photographer at any notable fashion event in the city. Miranda demanded her magazine be on the cutting edge always, and God help her staff if something new and different was presented and they allowed themselves to be scooped.  
  
Emily swallowed audibly. “Yes, Miranda,” she answered. “Peter Ericson was there for Runway. I saw him in the crowd.”  
  
Miranda nodded. “I want pictures of our party while on the red carpet on my desk in the morning. Especially any that contain the girl in the Ellie Saab gown.” Miranda opened her eyes and turned, looking out the car window. “That's all.” she said softly.  
  
***  
  
Andy sat bleary-eyed over an article she was fact-checking early in the morning hours. She felt wired and jittery, but she supposed that's what not sleeping and drinking strong coffee all night would do. She'd been inspired by the show and had returned to her small desk in her cubicle, and in a flood of creativity, the requested twenty-five hundred words had flowed from her fingertips and onto the computer screen. Once she began reading over what she had written, she became nervous. Although her assignment was to write a piece on the MoMA fashion event, she'd produced a column that lambasted the fact that there was nothing new at the event. Her article highlighted how fashion is about change and looking back, while interesting, does nothing to further the cause. The writing, in her opinion, was among some of the best she'd ever done. The piece was powerful. It moved those few colleagues in her department she had trusted enough to allow to read it. Now she had until Thursday evening to decide whether to rewrite it or submit it as it was.  
  
Her boss came by her desk and glanced at the numerous empty paper cups filled with the dregs of bad newsroom coffee. Andy glanced up at him, bleary-eyed. “You done with the fact check on Miller's article?” he asked.  
  
She nodded. “Final copy is already in the computer for you to look at, Boss. Fredricson's article, too.”  
  
Jack Prentice nodded. “And the column for Sunday?”  
  
Andy nodded. “Twenty-five hundred words, rough draft, are in the system.” She shrugged tiredly. “It's going to need some major polishing.” she said, while thinking, _Yeah, like a complete rewrite,_ to herself.  
  
Jack nodded. “Well, you've got a couple of days. You look like shit, Sachs. A little birdy told me you worked all night. Go home and get some sleep. You can worry about spit-shining your copy tomorrow.”  
  
Andy nodded and grabbed her purse. When the boss said to go home, you went. It was a once in a blue moon occurrence.  
  
***  
  
Robert Hoskins, Editor-in-Chief of _The New York Times_ was livid. “What do you mean,” he grated at his Executive Assistant as he paced his office, “that she's decided to stay on in Miami for a few days? Doesn't she have a column due for press this afternoon?”  
  
The Executive Assistant nodded. “Yes Sir. She has a column due for press for the evening edition.”  
  
Hoskins paced to his desk and yanking open a drawer reached for his dirty secret. In the old days, a crusading Editor-in-Chief kept a bottle of booze in his desk. Hoskins kept a bottle of Gaviscon Liquid Antacid to coat his stomach and control the pain from his ulcers. His personal physician would have a few choice words for him if he knew how many times a week that Hoskins sent his assistant out to a local drug store to pick up a bottle of the over-the-counter medication. Even more words if he knew how many times the editor would sneak more of the medication in under his assistant's nose when returning from lunch. He unscrewed the cap and drank straight from the mouth of the bottle. Then he leveled his eyes at his assistant. “Get the editor of the Style section on the phone, and tell her I want to know why her Fashion Columnist is on vacation when she has a column due!...Again! ....No, better yet, tell her to get her behind up here now! I'd rather hear her excuses face to face!” he said through clenched teeth, the vein in his temple throbbing. As his assistant rushed from the office to do his bidding Hoskins clutched at the antacid bottle and took another swig. “Everybody knows it's because she's sleeping with her,” he growled at the empty office.  
  
***  
  
Jack Prentice got the call from a distraught Karen Wilson at just under an hour to press time. "Jack,” she said, “is there any chance that the copy girl you recommended to me might have done anything with that column for Sunday yet?” she asked almost breathlessly.  
  
Jack, busy with the thousand things crossing his desk as the countdown to the presses starting up ran down, didn't give the question a second thought. “Yeah,” he answered, as his mind moved onto all the other small crises before him. “It's already in the system for me to look over.”  
  
The meeting with the Editor-in-Chief had not gone well. Karen had received a thorough dressing down from a man that she suspected no longer trusted her in her position. He was unable or unwilling to understand that her fashion columnist was an artist, and because an artist, of a temperamental nature. Danielle did what Danielle wanted to do, no more and no less. If Karen hadn't been intimately involved with the woman, she would have likely fired her long ago. As it was, Danielle was like a drug to her. One she needed, even while she knew the need was self-destructive. Under the gun she knew she had to have something to send to press, and she had a hundred other things she needed to do between her and the quickly approaching deadline. Without further consideration to the consequences and without reading it, she used a few deft keystrokes to send Andy's article to the computers that now handled the type-setting process digitally. Then she picked up the phone to call Danielle to tell her to get on a plane and come home because both their jobs might be at stake.  
  
***  
  
Bill MacGrath had been a print-monkey all his life. He'd cut his teeth on old-style type-setting as an apprentice more than forty years ago. When digital printing took over, he saw the benefit of the new technology and got himself educated about it. He'd been running _The Times’_ print room for almost a decade, and retirement was on the near horizon. When one of his apprentice print-monkeys brought him a printout of the fashion column complaining that it was too long for the daily column, he looked it over with a practiced eye. The apprentice was right, it was nearly twice as many words as would fit in the scheduled column inches allowed for the fashion piece. _More like a weekend article,_ he thought. Cursing a blue streak and terrifying the apprentice, he quickly read the piece through, and with a blue marker he drew a line between sentences where the material could be reasonably truncated. “Run it over a 'To be continued tomorrow' footer,” he instructed, “and make sure you save the balance of the text to a file so we'll have it when we need it.”  
  
***  
  
After several hours sleep, Andy woke in the early evening to discover that her refrigerator was empty. This wasn't really surprising, as the demands of her job rarely gave her time to eat at home. She decided to leave her small loft apartment and grab a bite to eat at a local Vietnamese restaurant she liked. On the way she stopped at the corner newsstand and picked up a copy of _The Times_ . As she dined on her favorite Muc Xao Hanh La, she paged through several sections of the paper, taking proprietary pride when she saw corrections she had made to articles in print. Then, to her horror, she saw her column. The one due to be printed for the Sunday edition. The one she was going to rewrite.  
  
She read the column and, allowing that it had basically been cut in two, she realized that not a word that she had written had been changed. Not a thought, not a punctuation mark. It had gone to print exactly as she had typed it out, which was unheard of in the newspaper game. The column should have passed through two or three people's hands before it got to print. She shook her head. Somebody had screwed up big-time. She glanced at the by-line and felt the world shake around her. They'd printed it underneath Danielle Gold's name. The Fashion Columnist was known throughout the paper as a temperamental bitch--one used to getting her own way and who made other people's lives hell. Andy was pretty sure that the column wasn't going to please the woman. She was in serious trouble, and she knew it.  
  
***  
  
Early the next morning Miranda Priestly sat at her desk at _Runway_ sipping her morning latte and perusing the many publications that her second assistant laid out for her each morning. She had glanced at several of the reviews of the MoMA event last evening in various newspapers before she got to _The Times_ . She pursed her lips with distaste. Each time she saw that woman's name, she had to force herself to read Danielle Gold's vapid ramblings and exaggerated opinions of what was important in the world of fashion. She turned to the style section and adjusted her reading glasses. Five minutes later Miranda sighed softly and carefully folding the paper, placing it on her desk with the fashion article up where she could see it. She called out to her assistant. “Emily,” she said quietly.  
  
In the outer office Emily looked at Heather Gray, the newest second assistant. “She means you,” she said in a superior, sing-song way.  
  
Heather rose quickly and rushed into Miranda's office. “Yes, Miranda?” She squeaked while the icon stared out her window.  
  
“I want a mocha latte, soy milk, no whip cream, and a pristine copy of today's New York Times delivered to Nigel in his office in the next ten minutes. Tell Nigel that I will expect his impressions of _The Times'_ fashion column as soon as he's done reading it. I also want you to extend an invitation to the Editor-in-Chief of _The Times_ to have lunch with me. See if Thursday of this week works with his schedule. If so, arrange my schedule to allow it. That's all,” the icon said, never turning her eyes from the window.  
  
Heather jotted her instructions in shorthand on her pad and rushed from the office, by-passing Emily's desk and making a bee line for the elevators.  
  
Miranda's eyes remained fixed out the window but her hand reached out and caressed the article where it lay face up on her desk. Either the woman who had attacked everything Miranda believed regarding fashion over the course of the last year, even attempting to call into question Miranda’s credibility as the leading authority in fashion by focusing on her age, had experienced a major change of heart --and Miranda didn't believe that for a moment-- or she hadn't written this column, no matter what the by-line said. Her mind flashed back to the girl in the Ellie Saab gown. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she mused quietly to the empty office.  
  
***  
  
The next morning Andy sat at her desk attempting to work diligently on fact-checking an incredibly boring article on a political hot-potato issue, the cost of new traffic lights. With a sense of foreboding she was suddenly aware of the shadow falling across her desk.  
  
“So, this is the little idiot minion that is attempting to ruin my reputation,” a sarcastic female voice said in a cold tone from just behind Andy's shoulder.  
  
Andy turned in her chair and, glancing up, recognized Danielle Gold from her by-line photograph. “Ms. Gold,” Andy answered by way of greeting. _Today just gets better and better,_ Andy thought ironically.  
  
Danielle Gold looked down her nose at Andy. Her tone was frosty, “I don't appreciate a no-talent hack wannabe from the copy department thinking she can write for me. Your ridiculous piece of trash ran under my by-line. Now I'm going to have to figure out a way to clean up your mess.”  
  
Andy bit the inside of her lip. She had been asked to write the piece. She had told her boss that it needed work before it was printed. It wasn't her fault that somebody had screwed up, and they didn't have anything of this woman's on file to print.  
  
Danielle Gold walked away, but as she did so she glanced over her shoulder. “Don't bother looking for the rest of your shitty article in today's edition,” she said, her tone both condescending and nasty. “I've already gotten Karen to kill it.”  
  
Andy sighed as she watched the woman walk away.  
  
***  
  
Roger Hoskins glanced at the message on his desk. His assistant had taken the call late yesterday afternoon while he had been out of the office. Apparently the formidable Miranda Priestly wanted to have lunch. He had met Miranda several times at various functions, and he was peripherally aware of the ongoing war of words between his fashion columnist and the titan of the fashion publishing world. His first thought was that Miranda wanted the war of words stopped, but approaching him about such a trivial thing seemed completely out of character with what he knew about the woman. Curious, he buzzed his assistant. “Carol,” he said to his intercom, “please confirm lunch tomorrow with Miranda Priestly.”  
  
***  
  
Miranda sat at her desk staring out the window. Evening had fallen on the city, and it would soon be time for her to leave to go home and have dinner with her daughters. She glanced at the crumpled remains of the Style section of _The Times_ evening edition. She had sent the new second assistant out late this afternoon to wait for its delivery to one of the local news-stands. She was unwilling to wait for tomorrow morning to have her curiosity satisfied as to what conclusions the mysterious writer of _The Times_ fashion column would draw from the insightful start of the article in yesterday's paper. Today's paper did not continue the article as promised. What had been printed in today's paper amounted to an insipid retraction of the column run yesterday. Miranda had no doubt that the prose in today's column were unquestionably Danielle Gold's. It contained several catch phrases that appeared in her writing frequently, and it used the same convoluted self-aggrandizing justifications for what were, in Miranda's opinion, unsupportable positions. She had taken a certain grim pleasure in tearing the offending page of the style section into several small pieces, and then wadding those pieces into tight paper balls. Now she was more certain than ever that _The Times_ had a talented writer who had the vision to see fashion as it was, not as Danielle Gold saw it. Miranda smiled at her reflection in her darkening office window. She believed that the young woman she had been attracted to at the MoMA event was that writer. Green, unsure of herself, but with endless potential, waiting only for a skilled hand to temper her into a great fashion journalist. _Runway_ was always hungry for new blood. All Miranda needed to do now was convince Roger Hoskins over lunch tomorrow to part with the information about who this new talent at his newspaper was.


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday September 17th, 2009  
  
Andy sat at her desk, feeling miserable. Danielle Gold seemed to be making it a point to stalk her at every opportunity. In each encounter the hostile woman again berated her as a no-talent hack.  
  
The “star” reporter of the Style section didn't pull any punches and wasn't above saying what she had to say in front of any available audience, including Andy's co-workers. Andy found the repeated harsh verbal assaults horribly humiliating, but she restrained herself from losing her temper and fighting back or going to her boss to complain about the situation. This wasn't some schoolyard thing. This was the real world and the career she wanted in a big city newsroom. She wanted to show everyone that she was tough enough to take whatever was dished out and still do her job professionally. She glanced at the copy she was working on. Adding insult to injury, the articles she's been assigned to write copy for the last couple of days seemed last page of the paper, below the fold unimportant. She had begun to become seriously concerned about just how far Danielle's power and influence might reach within the hierarchy of _The Times’_ management.  
  
***  
  
A truly excellent lunch at a five-star restaurant in the charming company of Miranda Priestly had left Roger Hoskins feeling well-satisfied and yet, at the same time, completely incompetent. Miranda was a force to be reckoned with, a legend in the publishing industry. The purpose of the lunch meeting, he had discovered, was that she had wished to trade information. Early in the meal she had offered up several interesting tips, spanning inside information on a high society scandal, a tip on a major corporation about to go belly-up and take it's employees’ pension plans with it, and details on a celebrity drug bust that was just breaking news. He wondered where she got her information, but he didn't doubt for one single second that when his reporters followed up they would discover each tip was good. All she had desired in return was one trivial and insignificant piece of information, and he discovered he didn't have it to give her. He had no idea who had actually written the column Miranda had enough interest in to actually bring a copy of it with her to lunch. He also didn't immediately know why the balance of the article Miranda was so interested in hadn't been printed the next day as promised. He was Editor-in-Chief of one of the premier newspapers in the world. He wasn't used to feeling like a schoolboy, chastised for not completing his lessons. All it had taken was one purse of the elegant woman's lips. He didn't presently know the information Miranda had asked about, but he was damn well going to find out.  
  
In the back of a taxi on the way back to his office Hoskins read the column that Miranda Priestly had handed him. It was good writing. Damn good writing. It moved the reader, lured the reader towards the writer's point of view. He folded the newspaper and laid it on the car seat. Pulling out his cell phone, he speed-dialed his executive assistant. “Carol,” he said as she picked up. “Contact the editor of the Style section. Find out from Karen who wrote the fashion column that was run on Tuesday under Danielle Gold's by-line. Tell Karen I said to scrap whatever Danielle is getting ready to run tonight and run Tuesday's column again in tonight's edition. I want it run in its entirety. Contact Bill McGrath in the print-room. If I know that old print-monkey, he has the text in a file somewhere in the computer. Tell him to expand the scheduled column inches for the fashion column as necessary to make room. Trim other columns and cut ads if necessary. Also make sure you tell McGrath to run it under the by-line of the person who actually wrote it. Have a messenger standing by in the press room. I want the first copy hot off the presses hand-delivered to Miranda Priestly at her office at _Runway_ before the ink has time to dry. ”  
  
***  
  
Miranda returned from lunch to her office at _Runway_ and immediately terrorized her executive staff. Emily, a seasoned survivor of life in the trenches of _Runway_ , read the white-haired woman's body language at a glance and dove for cover, leaving Miranda's hapless new second assistant Heather Gray to take the brunt of Miranda's dark mood. Surprisingly, the girl got off with a fairly minor tongue lashing and just might keep her job if she managed to bring Miranda a center-of-the-sun hot latte in the next five minutes. Now Miranda sat fuming silently in her office. The information she had given away at lunch had significant value in the publishing world. She was discontent that Roger did not have the information she had desired in exchange at the tip of his fingers, but she also knew how the game was played. She'd been one of the most powerful figures in New York City for almost twenty years. CEOs of major companies and seasoned politicians quaked in their shoes when her shadow crossed theirs. As appealing as instant gratification was, achieving it was rarely the norm. Getting things done took time. She had given Roger and _The Times_ something of value. Now he was in her debt. He would find out what she wished to know and would have the information delivered to her.  
  
She sat back and spun her chair towards the window. The next step would be to see what the mystery writer could really do. Was she capable --for Miranda was unreasonably hopeful that the “she” in question was the beautiful brunette in the Ellie Saab gown-- of producing more than one insightful article? As Miranda saw it there were two ways this scenario could play out. She could have her minions at _Runway_ approach the writer and have them encourage her to submit freelance articles for possible publication in _Runway_ , or she could convince Roger of the wisdom of having this potentially wonderful new talent produce articles for _The Times_.  
  
While the first method would allow Miranda to control the situation to a greater extent, even to the point of directing what kind of articles she wanted to see from the writer in question, she had to admit that the second method held a certain bonus incentive. If the mystery writer was writing Fashion columns for _The Times_ several times a week, it would mean that Danielle Gold was not producing those columns, thus reducing her ability to spread the infection of her aberrant ideas about fashion to her readers. The danger in this method was that Roger might realize what he had in this new talent and make things difficult if and when Miranda made her play and attempted to lure the woman away to work at _Runway_.  
  
As her assistant rushed in breathless and afraid with Miranda's steaming latte clutched in her trembling hands, Miranda smirked. This new second assistant might actually have the where-with-all to remain employed at _Runway_ for a little while longer. Miranda took the latte from the nervous woman's hand and relished the fact that now she had a plan which would not only fulfill her desire to learn more about this talented new writer but would at the same time send Danielle Gold into another fit of figuratively frothing at the mouth. The image of Danielle Gold in a fit of apoplexy from being told someone else would be published in “her” fashion column played across Miranda's mind's eye, causing her cold blue eyes to twinkle at her terrified second assistant and her face to crease in a small wicked smile. “That's all,” she said softly. Heather fled Miranda's office as if all the demons of hell were chasing her.  
  
***  
  
Karen Wilson finished reading the printout of the article that the Editor-in-Chief had demanded be run in the evening edition in place of the scheduled Fashion column. She placed the pages neatly on her desk. The writing was good, granted that the opinions expressed in the column weren't what had been asked for. It was supposed to have been a report on the MoMA fashion retrospective, not a condemnation of it. If it came down to explaining to the editor-in-chief why the balance of the column hadn't been run on Wednesday --and from what she had learned from her telephone conversation with Roger's executive assistant, Karen had a very uncomfortable premonition that she would soon be standing before his desk doing exactly that-- that was her story, and she was sticking to it. She sighed and picked up the phone, dialing Jack Prentice in the copy and fact checking department. “Jack,” she said as soon as he picked up the phone. “Karen Wilson in Style here. I need to know the name of the person who wrote Tuesday's fashion column.”  
  
“I'm surprised you don't know it already, Karen,” Jack answered rather coldly. “Your protégée, Danielle, has been harassing Andy since the morning after Andy bailed her ass out by having that column ready to print. And may I add that Andy had it ready to go two days before she was due to turn it in...”  
  
“I know...I know....” Karen said apologetically. It suddenly seemed to her that she was always apologizing for Danielle's temperamental and volatile nature. “You know how it is when you're working with an artist,” she temporized, using the same lame excuse she'd used a dozen times before in the last month alone. “Anyway, first name Andy, what's his last name?” she asked into the telephone receiver.  
  
“Sachs,” Jack said in response. “Her name is Andy Sachs. That's S-A-C-H-S.”  
  
“Andy Sachs.” Karen repeated, looking up and seeing Danielle standing in the doorway to her office. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, hanging up the phone.  
  
“So,” Danielle asked, a nasty smile on her face, “You finally moving to get that no-talent that messed up my column fired?” she asked lazily.  
  
Karen looked down at her desk and sighed, well aware of the coming explosion. “No.” she answered. “I'm running her column tonight in its entirety. Orders from the top.”  
  
“Running it?” Danielle asked, evidently momentarily confused. “Running it where? It's a weekend-length column.”  
  
Karen looked up at the woman that was her drug of choice and steeled herself for what was to come. She knew for certain that Danielle would throw a hissy-fit and punish her for what she must say next. She swallowed and looking Danielle in the eye she said, “I'm running it in place of your column. The print room is going to cut other columns' lengths or drop ads to make up the necessary space.”  
  
For a moment the way Danielle's mouth worked reminded Karen of a fish she'd caught one time when she went fishing with her father, who had an interest in the sport. She'd gotten the hook out of it and watched it lay there on the pier with its mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. She couldn't stand to see it suffer and threw it back into the water. Her father had laughed at her all the way home.  
  
Karen watched Danielle's eyes narrow and her mouth set in a thin line. “You're going to run that no-talent little bitch's column in place of my column?!” she shrieked.  
  
Karen had suddenly had enough. She stood angrily from her desk and slammed both hands palms down onto its surface. “I'm going to run it because I've been told to by my boss,” she said dangerously. “And may I remind you that I'm your boss!”  
  
Danielle stiffened. “Well,” she said, anger vibrating in her tone. “I have other friends in this paper. If you won't do what's right, I'll go to somebody that will!”  
  
Karen looked sadly at the woman that she was nearly obsessed with. “Danielle,” she said very quietly, “I'm the only friend you have left at this paper. Your prima donna act has alienated everybody else. I've put my own job in jeopardy protecting you and making excuses for you! Now drop this and leave Sachs alone. Her column runs tonight because that's the way the editor-in-chief wants it. And there's not anything you can do about it.”  
  
Danielle turned angrily to leave the office. Before going she looked back over her shoulder and smirked cruelly. “Well, I know somebody who won't be getting any for a while.” she said nastily as a parting shot.  
  
Karen slumped back down at her desk and placed her head in her hands. Danielle wasn't good for her, and she knew it. Had known if for some time. Karen was perfectly aware that Danielle didn't feel about her the way she felt about Danielle. She knew that Danielle manipulated her and threw her name around to get what she wanted in the workplace. Karen was also aware that Danielle lied to her on a regular basis and that she cheated on her outrageously. Although Danielle insisted she was faithful, Karen knew for a fact about at least two of Danielle's other lovers, including the one who was in Miami with her when the hurricane hit. With tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat, she reached for the telephone and called her therapist to see if she could get her appointment moved up. It was time to go cold turkey and kick the habit before it cost her the only other thing she loved. Her job.  
  
***  
  
Miranda was surprised when, only a few hours after her lunch with Roger Hoskins, Emily announced that a private messenger service had delivered a copy of the evening edition of the paper. From nearly a lifetime of living in Manhattan Miranda was aware that even the many newsstands that littered the cityscape would not yet have received copies of the evening edition, and they were the first places to do so. She took the paper from Emily's outstretched hand and moved behind her desk while picking up her reading glasses. “Generously tip the messenger from petty cash Emily. That's all.” she said taking her seat and seeking out the Style section.  
  
Fifteen minutes later Miranda had finished reading the column. Twice. She was experiencing a strange, satisfying sensation, almost like the proverbial desire for a cigarette after sex. This woman –and Miranda had no doubt that a woman had written the column since not even the great gay male designers that Miranda knew intimately had the kind of insight into fashion this writer showed she clearly had-- this Andy (a rude and provincial bastardization, Miranda was certain the name was something more elegant, Andrea perhaps) had touched a place deep inside Miranda with her words. Miranda was certain now that there was a kindred spirit out there. Someone that understood fashion as she did. Understood that it was all about the acceptance and balancing of risk. _Andy Sachs_ , Miranda thought as she looked up from the paper on her desk. “Emily,” she called out quietly. Emily was in the doorway in less than five seconds. “Contact Roger Hoskins' assistant at _The Times_. Find out if Roger is going to attend the Darfur charity benefit scheduled for tomorrow evening. If he is going to be there, contact the planners of the event and RSVP that I will also attend. Then tell them to move my place to Roger's table. That's all.”  
  
***  
  
Andy hugged her best friend Lily to her tightly. “Girl,” she said playfully, “where you been?”  
  
The swirl and the noise of the after work crowd in the bar they were in almost drowned out the friendly banter. Lily smiled. “Well, since you helped me move into my apartment a few weeks ago I've been running my behind off for the gallery I'm working for.” she answered. Looking down she shuffled a little bit.  
  
It was something that Andy had seen ever since they became best friends forever as teenagers. Lily wanted something from Andy and was embarrassed to ask. Andy lifted her drink and waited patiently for Lily to get around to what she wanted. “Andy,” Lily started, “I need a favor.”  
  
Andy looked at her friend. “If it's within my power Lily, it's yours. You should know that.” Lily nodded.  
  
“I sort of let it slip at work that I had a contact at _The New York Times_ ,” she said looking down at the bar. “Now the owner of the gallery is all over my behind to use that connection to get us some press. We're a new gallery, and we're really struggling. If we don't get some publicity soon the place isn't going to survive.”  
  
Andy blew out a breath. “I'll do what I can Lil,” she replied. “I can't promise anything, but I know somebody I can talk to at the paper. Maybe get them to come out and see your place. Didn't you tell me you had an opening tomorrow night?”  
  
Lily nodded. “It would be great if you could get somebody to come take a look. It's going to be a fantastic show. We're featuring some virtually unknown new artists that are really talented,” she said excitedly.  
  
***

Friday September 18th, 2009  
  
Friday morning found Andy moving nervously through enemy territory. Danielle Gold had accosted and verbally assaulted her in many different departments of the paper, but positively the last place Andy wanted to get caught was on Danielle's home turf in the Style department. Especially today when last night for some unknown reason the powers that be had chosen to completely take leave of their senses and reprint her column in its entirety in the evening edition. Not only had they printed her article, they had printed her by-line. She had an article in _The New York Times_.  
  
She'd gone out and bought a dozen copies to send home. Her parents were going to be so proud, and she knew they'd want a copy to give to every relative. Fortunately for Andy, early mornings at the office were not something Danielle did. Andy sighed as she saw the office doorway she sought. Now came the really stupid part of her plan. Convincing a woman she’d heard was Danielle Gold's lover to attend the opening at Lily's gallery that night. Bracing herself, she knocked on the door and reminded herself that what she did was for her BFF.  
  
“Come in,” came a woman s voice that, if Andy were trying to write about it, she could only describe as sultry.  
  
Andy opened the door to the office and faced, Karen Wilson, Style Editor, across the woman's desk. “Ms Wilson?” she swallowed nervously, watching the attractive woman's head come up and regard her curiously. Karen had maybe ten or twelve years on her, but Andy always seemed to have a thing for older women. Even the one long-term relationship she had in college had been with an older woman. A professor at Northwestern. “My name is Andy Sachs; I work in copy and fact checking,” she said. “I....ummm....I know of a gallery opening tonight. I thought that the Style section might be interested in it for inclusion in the things to do over the weekend column...” Andy babbled, as she was prone to do when nervous.  
  
Karen nodded. “Okay,” she said, a small smile on her face making her even more attractive. “I'm listening.”  
  
***  
  
Karen stood amid the scattered outfits and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. The pencil skirt and blouse with the jacket over it were flattering to her body. She knew she looked good in them. Her hair was acceptable, and her make-up just right for the evening crowd she'd soon be joining. During their session yesterday afternoon, her therapist had told her if she wanted to break it off with Danielle and make the separation work she needed to start getting out among people. Just working all the time wasn't going to fulfill her need to be social and would only serve to re-enforce what was already an unhealthy and somewhat obsessive pathology in Karen.  
  
In short her therapist recommended that she needed to get out in public and date. See that there were other fish in the sea. Make herself understand that Danielle wasn't the only lover she could ever have. Meet potential partners, and with any luck find someone else to love. Someone who would be better for her. So when Andy Sachs came into her office and suggested someone attend a gallery opening, she’d jumped at it. There was only one catch. She grinned as she remembered Andy's face when the woman realized that Karen expected them to attend the opening together. Turning from the mirror she smiled viciously. “Well, Danielle,” she said softly to the empty room. “You’re out with one of your lovers on a date tonight, so I suppose that it's all right if I go out on a date, too.”  
  
***  
  
Miranda sat humming softly to herself in the back of her town-car on the ride home from the benefit. She was exhilarated and not quite ready to surrender the evening. _It had been so terribly easy_ , she thought to herself. She had turned on the charm, becoming a fascinating dinner companion, and acted as if only Roger and she existed in that crowded banquet hall. By the time she had said her farewells, she had left him believing it was his idea that Andy Sachs get a shot at writing the Fashion column in his newspaper.  
  
She glanced up to where Roy sat in the driver's seat. “Is your wife waiting on you at home, Roy?” she asked.  
  
“No, Ma'am,” he answered, “She's away visiting her mother this week,” he answered, glancing in the rear-view mirror.  
  
Miranda nodded, “Then if you don't have somewhere you need to be immediately, let's take a drive through the park. It's such a lovely evening,” she confided, glancing out the window. “And I'm not quite ready to go home, yet.” She sat back and, stretching, returned to humming softly to herself.  
  
***  
  
Andy had arrived at the gallery with Karen and introduced her to Lily. Lilly had smiled at the woman and shown both of them around the exhibits. As always Andy lost the thread of what Lily was saying about all the different pieces. Lily always became so energized and excited when talking about art that she spoke a mile a minute and often failed remember that those listening didn't have her extensive art history background or her practical experience as a sketch artist, painter, and potter. Lily came alive when she talked about art. At one point Andy excused herself to get the three of them glasses of wine from one of the roaming waiter's trays. When she came back the dynamic of the group had somehow shifted and Andy found herself suddenly a third wheel. Soon after, she struck up a conversation with another of Lily's co-workers whom she had met while helping Lily move into her apartment. She watched with some amusement as Lily moved from exhibit to exhibit with Karen in tow, who was hanging almost breathlessly onto every word.  
  
***  
  
Saturday September 19th 2009  
  
Saturday morning found the ringing of Andy's phone waking her from a sound sleep. She groggily reached across the nightstand and glancing at the clock realized that is was just after seven A.M. She lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” she mumbled sleepily.  
  
“Andy!” came Lily's excited voice. “Get yourself up girl! I'm taking you to breakfast!”  
  
Andy glanced at the clock again, “Okay,” she mumbled, “Maybe about eleven?”  
  
“No, girlfriend!” Lily gushed. “Now. Get your behind out of bed and throw something on. I'm just down the block, and I'll be there in five minutes!”  
  
“Lily, it's Saturday morning,” Andy complained. “You know, the day we're allowed to sleep in?”  
  
“Not today! Too much celebrating to do. Now get up. Sooner you're dressed and ready, the sooner you’ll have a cup of coffee in your hand.”  
  
Andy grumbled again into the receiver, but it was too late. Lily had already hung up. Andy dragged herself from bed and started to put herself to rights.  
  
***  
  
Lily wouldn't say anything to Andy about what was going on or what they were celebrating until the waiter had taken their breakfast order at a small cafe down the street from Andy's apartment. Once they were seated with coffee and waiting for their food, Lily excitedly produced the Style section from the morning's edition of _The Times_. Andy's breath caught. She had hoped to get a half inch of column space back in the to-do over the weekend column, one of those that mentioned how such and such gallery was having an opening featuring avant-garde artwork with an address for the gallery and its hours of operation. What she saw instead was a major article. Half a page of reporting, page one of the section, above the fold. Even pictures of some of the art and a shot of the outside of the gallery were included.  
  
“I didn't know what she was going to do when Karen asked if I had any photos of the art and the gallery,” Lily exclaimed. “I thought she was just being nice. We talked for a little while after you left, and then she said she had to get back to the office. She asked about the photos, and I gave some to her and this morning, this,” she continued pointing to the article sitting in front of Andy on the table. “Girl, I am golden with the gallery owner,” she continued excitedly. “He called me at something like just after six this morning and told me to get a hold of The Times. Andy, he's so pleased about the publicity that he's going to let me coordinate the next show! There are people that are working at the gallery that have been in the business for _years_ that haven't been allowed to coordinate a show!”  
  
Andy smiled. “I'm glad for you Lily. I really wasn't expecting this, I thought I might be able to get you some mention in the paper but this...this is pretty major. If you want to thank someone for it, I would suggest you thank Karen.”  
  
Lily grinned and Andy could swear her friend blushed. “Oh I intend to,” Lily said softly, “on our date tonight.”  
  
Surprised, Andy nearly choked on her coffee as it went down the wrong pipe.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday September 21 st , 2009

Monday found Andy sitting at her desk working when she heard her boss, Jack Prentiss, bellow “Sachs!” from the doorway of his office. As always Andy stiffened when Jack yelled. As she rose from her desk and walked to his office, she quickly mentally cataloged which articles she'd worked on recently that Jack might be screaming about.

Stepping into his office she asked, “You wanted to see me, boss?”

Jack looked up from his desk, “Editor-in-Chief wants to see you in his office, chop-chop. What the hell did you do?”

Andy blanched, “Hoskins wants to see me?” she stammered. “I haven't done anything...” she stopped for a moment and went even paler. “Except piss off Danielle Gold with that article I wrote for her column...”

Jack nodded and sighed. “Gold's got juice in this paper,” he said quietly. “Get a move on Sachs. Doesn't do to keep the editor-in-chief waiting.”

Andy swallowed her trepidation and hurried from the office.

***

Jack watched as she walked nervously down the hallway. “A shame that Gold bitch doesn't have any talent,” he said softly to himself, his eyes following the woman he desperately wanted to mentor into the journalist she could become. “Sachs, you have more talent for writing in your little finger than that bitch has in her entire body,” he almost whispered. He sighed and went back into his office. Trouble was coming and he knew it. Gold had a hard-on for Sachs, and Gold usually managed to manipulate things in such a way as to get what she wanted around here even though she wasn't widely liked. He nodded to himself. He hadn't known Andy long, but he saw his own fire in her. A passion to say what needed to be said and to do so in clever prose. Writing things people wanted to read and doing it in such a way that it moved people to want to get off their butts and change things.

So many of the reporters he encountered in his professional life had gotten into the business for the thrill of chasing a story. While Sachs possessed that drive, too, it was the writing she loved best. He nodded again more definitively to himself. The decision was made. If it became necessary he'd go toe-to-toe with that bitch Gold, the editor of the Style section, and even the editor-in-chief if it came to that to make sure that Andy got her shot at becoming all she could become.

***

Andy was shown into the editor-in-chief's office and was offered one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk by his smiling executive assistant. Andy wondered how anyone could manage to do the job of the woman before her. The rush, the thousand and two tasks each day, all while trying to keep the ever changing schedule of an important and busy man like Mr. Hoskins straight and keeping him informed of where he needed to be and what he needed to be doing moment-to-moment throughout the day--Andy was certain that she would suck at such a job. The assistant, Carol she had introduced herself as, inquired politely if Andy would like something—coffee, tea, water--drawing Andy from her thoughts.

“A cup of coffee would be great,” Andy answered nervously, wondering if Carol was this nice to people just before Mr. Hoskins gave them the boot.

Carol seemed to sense her nervousness. As she stood at the credenza that ran along the wall of the office and poured a cup of coffee from the service as she spoke softly. “Don't be worried, dear. This isn't the end of days. It's opportunity knocking. Now how do you take your coffee?”

“One sweet and low and a splash of creamer?” Andy said. She immediately stiffened as she heard the door to the office open and Mr. Hoskins’ voice said, “Oh coffee, wonderful, Carol. Would you please pour me one of those, too?” He came around the desk and sat in his chair.

A moment later Carol delivered two cups of coffee to the desk and looked to her boss. “Will that be all, Mr. Hoskins?” she asked.

“Yes, Carol, that will be all for the moment. Thank you for the coffee, and would you please hold all my calls until I'm done with Ms. Sachs here?”

“Yes, Mr. Hoskins,” Carol replied, walking out of the office.

Hoskins turned to face Andy. “So, Ms. Sachs, I had cause to read the column you wrote on Tuesday...”

Andy tried to breathe, tried to control the building nervousness she felt in the presence of this powerful publishing mogul. “It was wonderful to see something I had written published in the paper, Mr. Hoskins, but I have no idea how it got printed. I just put it in the computer. It wasn't due to go to print until the weekend edition! Jack...I mean Mr. Prentice…said that I had a couple of days. The article wasn't exactly what the paper had asked for, and I hadn't even had time to polish it, and all of a sudden there it was in print...” she babbled.

Hoskins raised an eyebrow at the admission. “You're telling me that what we ran was effectively a rough draft?” he asked.

Andy swallowed and nodded, feeling her eyes tear up. “Yes, sir,” she answered quietly.

“Karen Wilson also told me that you were the one who turned her on to the opening for the art show at that new gallery in Soho. The one we ran a piece on Saturday morning,” Hoskins said.

Andy nodded again, certain that she was going to be fired.

Roger Hoskins nodded at the woman sitting across from him, seemingly satisfied. “Andy...May I call you Andy?” he asked.

Andy nodded again, afraid to speak and desperately fighting the terror that was crawling around in her stomach. Afraid she's start babbling again and end up looking like more of an idiot.

Hoskins sat back in his chair. “I hear good things about you, Andy. Several reporters have spoken to me about how you dig in and even go the extra mile of trying to write in their voice when you are writing copy for their articles. I had drinks with Jack Prentice yesterday evening, and he has nothing but praise for your talent and your work ethic. Management is aware of all the nonsense Danielle Gold has put you through over the last several days. Karen Wilson is impressed at what a team player you are to not take a complaint up the ladder and that you were still willing to bring her department the tip on that gallery opening. She was very thankful for your introduction to the young woman you arranged as a contact. I understand that she was both quite knowledgeable and extremely helpful in the creation of the article we ran. So...” he smiled, “the short version is that you no longer work in the copy and fact checking department, Andy,” he said jovially. “Call maintenance and make arrangements to have the contents of your cubicle moved up to the style department. Your new desk is there. As of evening edition press time this coming Wednesday, you are responsible for the fashion column on Wednesdays and Fridays. You now answer to Karen, and she will have other writing assignments for you with different columns that appear in the Style section. We're going to consider this a probationary period as a reporter for _The Times_. There will be a bump in your next check to cover the additional responsibility. If you make it through the three month probationary period, you'll draw a starting reporter's salary.”

Andy sat before him with her mouth hanging open. She couldn't seem to comprehend what he was saying. It was all that she had dreamed of. She was to be a reporter for _The Times_! Not only a reporter, but one writing about something she was interested in! Fashion! She stood from the chair. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hoskins!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! I won't let you down, sir!”

Roger nodded, still smiling and watched her with amused eyes. “Andy,” he said gently, “Just keep writing like you have been. I don't want people that necessarily toe a company line. Especially not my columnists. Write what you see and feel. Make your readers see and feel it. That's what will sell papers. And selling papers is what the game is about.”

Andy nodded excitedly. “I can't begin to thank you for your trust in me, sir.” she gushed.

He then said something she almost missed in the excitement of the moment. Something she didn't understand. Something about some other powerful figure in the publishing industry bringing her to his attention. A mysterious figure being in her corner. Andy couldn't understand how that would be possible. She didn't know anybody in the industry outside of the people she worked with and the few mid-level employees she had interviewed with at other publications before she'd gotten the job at _The Times_. Andy just hoped her benefactor would step forward at some point so she could thank the person properly.

***

Danielle Gold arrived at the front door of Karen's apartment early Monday evening. She had been away for a long weekend with one of her harem of lovers to punish Karen for not doing as she was told and getting that stupid copy-girl fired. She grinned as she thought about the weekend in the arms of that other woman. She was a junior partner in a famous law firm on Sixth Avenue. Another mouse of a woman, who, while excellent at her job, was easy to manipulate in her personal life, just as Karen had once been. They had spent the weekend at the woman's vacation house in Cape May at the Jersey shore. More correctly, they had spent the weekend in various states of undress on the fur rug before the large fireplace of that vacation home. Danielle was about to use her key to the front door when Karen opened it, obviously on her way out for the evening. She was dressed to the nines in Vera Wang from the ready-to-wear fall collection. It was something that Danielle didn't like, but Karen had insisted on it because she thought she looked killer in it.

“Hey baby.” Danielle said, as Karen turned and used a key to lock the deadbolt on the door. “I'm back, and I thought we might spend some time together.”

Karen looked her up and down and then shook her head. “Can't tonight,” she answered. “I have somewhere to be.”

“What?” Danielle said haughtily, “Another one of those interminable press dinners? Or is it one of those silly charities you volunteer for? Blow it off,” she said, reaching for Karen. “You know you'll have a better time here with me.”

Karen stepped adroitly around the woman who was attempting to block her path. “I said I can't, Danielle,” she said, looking up and down the street for a cab.

“Really,” Danielle said. “What's so important that you'd pass up an evening of making it up to me that you didn't get that silly little bitch from copy fired like you should have?”

Karen turned, and for the first time in a long time Danielle saw her smile, really smile, like when they were first together. “I have a date.” Karen said softly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I see a cab coming,” she continued, waving her arm at the cabbie.

Danielle stood there for a moment. Karen had a date. _Not possible_ , she thought. She had Karen completely under her thumb. A little attention, good sex, and a kind word now and then, as well as the proper application of ignoring her and spending time with other lovers when Karen didn't do what she wanted, and the bitch was hers to do with as she pleased. She dug in her purse, got the key for Karen's place out, and reached for the front door as Karen opened the door to the cab that had stopped at her signal.

“Don't bother Danielle,” Karen said, sliding into the back of the cab. “I had all the locks changed yesterday.” The door to the cab closed and the cab sped off, leaving Danielle standing on the sidewalk wondering what had just happened.

Tuesday September 22 nd , 2009

The other shoe dropped for Danielle Gold mid-morning. She had wandered into the office late as usual and discovered a message on her desk summoning her to Karen's office. Smiling wickedly, she sauntered across the newsroom and stepped through the office door. “I suppose,” she said lazily, leaning against the door frame and suggestively running her finger up and down her collarbone, “that you want to apologize for being in a snit last night.”

Karen looked up from her work. “Actually, Danielle, she said softly, “I called you in to tell you that we're going to be making a few changes around here. Hoskins has sent up a new columnist. She'll be writing your column two days a week.”

“Is this Hoskins' department now?” Danielle asked caustically. “Or are you the editor? Oh, I guess I shouldn't bother to ask. You've never had the spine it takes to make any decision of your own. You even need to be told what you like in bed.”

Karen's face tightened with anger, her relaxed posture disappearing in the space of a few heartbeats. She stood from her desk. “Be very, very careful what you say next Danielle because at this moment your job is hanging by a thread. If I say I've fired you for cause, there's nobody in this building that's going to do anything but applaud. Now, I'm giving you a chance. You can continue to write the fashion column four days a week, including the weekend column. I'm not cutting your salary although you'll have two days less responsibility. What you _are_ going to do is keep your head down, do your job, and you're going to leave Sachs the hell alone! She's going to get her shot because that's what my boss wants!”

“Sachs!” Danielle nearly shrieked. “You're going to let that stupid little slut write in my column?! Why!? Is she doing you under the desk?!”

Karen's eyes narrowed. “Danielle, that's the last straw. Go back to your desk! Get out of my sight! And if you want to keep your job, stay the hell out of my way!” she said, her volume and angry tone increasing with each word. “You and I are through!”

Danielle recoiled as if slapped, then she advanced on Karen's desk angrily. “You're saying we're through? HA!” she exclaimed. “We were through last night. I was just coming over to try to let you down easy. Thought I'd give you one last mercy fuck. God knows it'll be a long time before you get another one. Nobody but me can stomach your ugly face. ”

Karen’s smile staggered Danielle, as did Karen's slight blush. Danielle knew immediately what it meant Karen had already found herself another girlfriend, and Sachs was the only likely candidate.

***

Evening edition press time found Danielle sitting in her office feeling quite pleased with herself. Between the article she had faxed in for yesterday and the one she'd just completed for today, she hadn't missed reporting on any of the fashion-related events that had occurred over the weekend. It didn't really matter that she hadn't attended any of them. She had the pre-publicity packages. She knew which designers were worthy of praise and which of condemnation without ever seeing what they showed. She knew who her friends were, and they were the ones who would reap the rewards of positive publicity through her column. And adding to her sense of satisfaction, now she knew that she had the upper hand over a new enemy. Andy Sachs had dared to try and take what was hers. She must have seduced Karen to get this chance. It was the only thing that made any sense. Danielle was sure, however, that by reporting on all of the fashion events over the weekend, she had left little for the new columnist to write about in her first column. And this was the big leagues. A bad first column was a death knell as far as any future as a columnist at this paper was concerned.

Now that Sachs had been dealt with, it was time to take punishing Karen for her perfidy to the next level. She'd spend some extra time “reassuring” her lawyer this week that she was the only woman for her, and next week she'd get the woman to initiate a lawsuit against Karen for sexual harassment in the workplace.

Wednesday, September 23 rd 2009

Morning found Andy's desk littered with empty coffee cups and crumpled pieces of paper from her early attempts at composing what was to be her first regular column printed in the paper. This one wasn't about an event like at the MoMA. Danielle Gold had made sure to cover the fashion show scene that had occurred over the weekend in her last two columns along with an additional nasty tirade aimed at the Ice Queen of fashion, leaving Andy with a big empty hole where her column should be. She had started on a number of ideas and discarded them after writing a few lines. None of the ideas she had felt right. She needed to find something she was really passionate about for this column. Now, with her time running out, she looked at the latest cup of nasty newsroom coffee on her desk and decided it was time to take a walk and get some fresh air, clear her head so she could write something worthwhile and deliver it on time.

She left _The Times_ building with no real direction or destination in mind and wandered the streets of Manhattan lost in thought for about an hour. It was a cool morning for September, and Andy hadn't bothered with a coat when leaving the office. Spying a Starbucks, she decided to stop for a cup of hot coffee that wouldn't eat her stomach lining. She entered and got in the line of people impatiently waiting to order. A very fashionably dressed attractive young woman loaded down with bags festooned with designer logos joined the line immediately behind her, seeming particularly impatient and nervous. She continually checked her watch and looked fearfully at her cell phone. Andy ordered an extra hot venti latte, paid the tab, and moved to the side, waiting to be called when her drink was ready. It was then she noticed some kind of meltdown occurring at the register. “Oh God! What do you mean you didn't get the order?!” the fashionably dressed woman exclaimed. “Emily swore she called it in!”

The barista behind the counter shook his head. “I can have it ready for you in, like, five minutes,” he replied.

The young woman looked close to tears, “Five minutes!” she cried, It's a tall, super hot latte! What takes five minutes?!”

The barista looked bored. “Auto World _called in_ their order. That has to be done right after that lady's,” he said, nodding towards Andy. “Then we can get to your order.”

Andy heard the barista who was making drinks call out her venti extra hot latte and took pity on the girl. She grabbed her drink and stepped back toward where the young woman stood still pleading with the little snot behind the counter. She reached out and offered the latte just as the woman said, “It's for Miranda Priestly for Gods' sake!”

Andy had spent a large part of Monday and Tuesday reading much of the last year’s worth of fashion columns from _The Times._ She also had read _Runway_ religiously cover-to-cover. As the confused woman looked at the cup in her hand Andy said, “One venti latti, extra hot.” The woman blinked at her and then practically snatched the cup from her hand, but as their fingers brushed, the bare bones of Andy's column-to-be coalesced in her mind in an instant. She knew what she would write.

The woman clutched the cup of coffee to her breast as if it were a wounded bird some predator might try to take from her. She looked at Andy. “I don't know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life!”

“Don't worry about it,” Andy chuckled. “You've already returned the favor.”

The woman rushed out of the Starbucks so quickly that Andy momentarily wondered if she'd stop to look for traffic before crossing the street or if Andy would be reading about her in _The Times_ , having become another of the pedestrian injury statistics. Then Andy got back into line and, pulling her notebook from her purse, waited patiently as she started outlining her column. There would be background to check, columns to re-read, but if she hurried, she could deliver her column by press time.

Thursday, September 24 th , 2009

Miranda rode in the back of the town-car on the way to her offices at _Runway_. Traffic was being more difficult than usual, meaning that at the moment the car was sitting and not moving at all. The sirens close-by likely meant that there was a fire or accident somewhere in the close vicinity and that roads were likely closed, causing gridlock. Miranda huffed. She was busy, had things to do. There were the newspapers on her desk. Including last night's evening edition of _The Times._ That paper might be the one in which “her” mystery writer would again appear in print. She glanced out the window and saw a news stand on the corner. Looking at traffic she determined that the car wasn't going anywhere for the next few minutes. “Roy,” she said to her driver, “I'm going to step over to that newsstand and buy a paper.”

Three minutes later she was back in the car and reading Andy –Miranda shuddered-- Sachs' column.

My distinguished colleague, Danielle Gold, has chosen over the last many months to engage in a, what one would politely call, spirited exchange of ideas with the editor-in-chief of Runway magazine. After reading Ms Gold's columns and having been an avid reader of Runway since I was old enough to recognize words, I feel that it is time I enter this debate.

Ice Queen, Dragon Lady, Devil in Heels. All of these are sobriquets applied to Miranda Priestly of Runway. She is a figure that strikes terror into not only her employees but to those even outside of the publishing field. What I ask is “Why?” Her elegance and panache for fashion and style is undoubted. She is unquestionably a powerful woman, one who has risen to the pinnacle of a male-dominated profession and remained for more than two decades. She wields the power that she has earned through her own skill and genius—yes, I'll say it again because it bears repeating—genius. If a man were in her position, would anyone question the editor’s demand for perfection, particularly since the results are attached to her name? I submit that no one would.

As for the argument I now enter. After careful consideration I find that I must also, regretfully and with respect, disagree with my colleague here at the paper as to the nature of how fashion progresses from one stage to another. Ms. Priestly's contention that fashion evolution is like the evolution of organic species seems correct to me. If one looks at the history of fashion, a style will remain “in fashion” until some designer presents a truly new, innovative, and original idea to replace it, causing one of the fits and starts Ms. Priestly so eloquently describes...

With a strange flutter in her stomach and a blush spreading down her neck, Miranda continued to read the words of “her” columnist.

***

Mid morning found a breathless, frightened Emily seeking refuge in Nigel's office. Nigel looked up from the light table where he was viewing negatives of the latest photo shoot. Emily paced frantically back and forth in front of him. “Nigel,” she said, just above a whisper—it was widely believed that Miranda could somehow hear anything that was said inside the _Runway_ offices—“Something bad is happening.”

Nigel sat back and removed his glasses. Emily was always high-strung and often high-maintenance, but he had learned over the course of their association to listen to her because she often acted as sort of a warning klaxon, sounding the alert that Miranda was in a particularly off mood. The alarm often went off without reason, but better to be over-prepared than caught off guard, he reasoned. He nodded for her to sit down, never having seen her quite this agitated before. “So,” he said gently. “What has you off your trolley this morning?”

She turned and glared at him. “She came in and said good morning to Heather when she handed her coat and bag over. She called her by name, Nigel. Then she smiled at me after giving me the daily list of to-dos. When it came time for her second latte, she said she'd go for it herself. And then as she was getting ready to leave the office, Nigel....” she said swallowing the words and looking around with wide, frightened eyes.

“And then?” Nigel encouraged.

“And then she asked if Heather or I would like anything from Starbucks! She left the office humming to herself, Nigel! And she was smiling!”

Nigel blinked. He had known Miranda for more than thirty years. Been her right hand for twenty of those years. Only once had he seen Miranda's personality change like Emily was describing. When she had first met and was falling in love with her first husband. The only husband that Nigel believed Miranda had actually loved. Smiling, he sat back as he considered who the lucky man might be.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday September 25th 2009

The job of Miranda Priestly's second assistant was always precarious. Even for one who had managed to last long enough that Miranda had stopped calling her Emily.

Heather was, unfortunately, all too aware of this fact. The weather had turned foul late last night when an unseasonal nor'easter had moved over the city, causing the temperature to plummet to just above freezing and rain to come down in buckets.

Howling gusts of gale-force winds turned other pedestrians’ umbrellas inside out. Not like Heather’s umbrella. No, her umbrella had not been turned inside out. The wind had simply ripped it from her hands to sail majestically over the heads of the few pedestrians across the nearly-deserted Manhattan street. Drenched to the skin, she now stood shivering just inside the pitiful shelter created by the plastic sheeting hanging from the plywood roof of a newsstand. Plastic sheeting that billowed and surged with each gust of wind, providing little protection from the storm.

It had been a bad day. The torrential rain had made traffic a nightmare during the morning rush hour which had caused Miranda to be late to her first meeting. Not as late as the people she was to meet, however, and Miranda then spent fifteen minutes cooling her heels in the back of her town car waiting for them to arrive at their office. Heather imagined the back of the town car. As the cold, wet rain ran down the undulating walls of clear plastic, she mused that the car must have been both warm and dry. After the meeting, the newly delivered Calvin Klein samples turned out to be not at all up to expectations, and the run-through for the next issue due to go to print had been, in Miranda's own words, a disaster. Miranda had decreed that they would all be staying late into the night to fully rework the material to be included in the magazine. Then in the late afternoon, Miranda had summoned her into the dragon's lair and sent her out into the storm to get the evening edition of _The Times_.

A truck rolled up and dumped a bound stack of newspapers on the ground in the downpour. The news vendor rushed out of the protection of his plywood box and dragged the sodden mass under the meager cover. He produced a pocket knife from his jeans and cut the plastic strap. Then, he offered Heather one of the copies of _The Times_ from the drier center of the pile. She looked at the wet newspaper and sighed. She was already soaked, and carrying the wet newspaper under her coat to protect it from any further weather damage would only make the trip back to the office and to Miranda's foul mood more unpleasant. She sighed as she paid the news vendor, and, after tucking the paper away, started back to the office.

Heather's fear rose when she got back to _Runway_. Emily sat behind her desk, the look on her face like that of a soldier in the trenches, awaiting the order to go over the top. Heather removed her soaked coat and took a moment to try to do something with her wet hair. Deciding that there was nothing to do but face music, she held her head up, soggy newspaper in hand, and marched into Miranda's office.

Cold blue eyes met Heather's green ones as Miranda reached imperiously for the product of Heather's trip out into the inclement weather. Heather held out the wet newspaper, and Miranda handled it with evident distaste. The white-haired icon quickly retreated around her desk and, donning her reading glasses, paged through a section of the paper. Not having been dismissed, Heather stood dripping on the luxurious carpet as Miranda quickly scanned the particular page she had apparently been looking for.

Miranda made a small sound deep in her throat, one Heather might have almost thought was pleasure. Miranda glanced up. She seemed to notice her assistant for the first time. “You're very wet,” she said quietly. “Go to the Closet. Have a warm shower in the model's changing room. Then you may have your pick of what to change into. I'd recommend something by Dolce & Gabbana. Their latest line would flatter your build. Order dinner from Union Station Cafe for you, Emily, and me. I'll have the crispy duck confit with fingerling potatoes. Order a couple of bottles of wine as well. A robust pinot noir to go with the duck and something appropriate to go with whatever you and Emily decide to have. There is no reason we shouldn't be comfortable while we work this evening. That's all,” she said, her attention back on the newspaper. With the dismissal Heather turned and left the dragon's lair to carry out her instructions, more certain than ever that she'd never understand the woman.

***

As soon as Heather had left the office Miranda sat at her desk and, feeling anticipation like that of a child on Christmas morning tearing the festive wrapping from that first present, allowed herself the joy of reading that which she had been impatiently awaiting. A few moments later she sighed and closed her eyes. She smiled as, even behind her eyelids, she was able to see the lines which had touched her so.

In this reporter's opinion, the attack by my colleague on Ms. Priestly's judgment on fashion based on her age is simply ridiculous. One has but to look at the steady stream of photographs of Ms. Priestly that appear in the press each week to see that she is the epitome of style, beauty, and grace. And as the popular consciousness is discovering in our society, women get sexier after a certain age. I submit that anyone who would say that she would not be honored to be on her arm at a public event is a damned liar...

Miranda knew without doubt that the author of this article knew how to write the English language. Knew the proper use of pronouns. The use of “she” as a personal pronoun in the sentence was a statement of perspective. The author had chosen to reveal something about herself by her choice of words. The pronoun spoke volumes to Miranda; her mysterious columnist deliberately intimated her comfortableness with being on another woman's arm. Miranda sat back in her chair feeling more satisfied than she had in a long time. Keeping her eyes closed, she relaxed and quietly hummed a tune happily to herself while she waited for dinner to arrive.

***

Dinner was something of a surreal experience for the two assistants. They ate a four-star meal and drank hundred-dollar-a-bottle wine with Miranda at a table in her office. Miranda was not at all the terror she'd been all day. She was calm if quiet, and even pleasant company to share a meal with. Emily ate little and watched the icon with bewildered eyes, like a woman not quite sure whether she might be eating her last meal and awaiting the executioner's summons. Heather, who engaged with Miranda in the few brief conversations during the meal, turned her brain to what could have caused such a marked change in the editor's behavior. As she finished her meal, she noted a section of the newspaper still on Miranda's desk, carefully spread out as if to dry. Heather rose, ostensibly to clear the table. As she passed the desk while heading for the trash can, she purposely reached for the newspaper.

“Leave that.” Miranda said, her tone sharper than it had been at dinner.

Heather turned and looked at her employer and smiled. “Of course Miranda. I'm sorry. I was only trying to tidy up.”

Emily blanched. Heather knew the rules, of course. She had been told on her first day. One did not make excuses to Miranda. One shut up and did what one was told. Otherwise, that person would suffer from the resulting explosion. Her employer didn't explode, though.

Heather hurriedly finished clearing the table and, when dismissed, the two assistants returned to their desks.

“Are you insane?” Emily whispered, evidently not wanting to draw Miranda's attention. “You never touch anything on her desk unless she asks you to!”

Heather nodded. “I just wanted to test a theory,” she grinned.

“What theory?” the British redhead grated.

Heather smiled, “That whatever it is that changed her mood was in the section of _The Times—_ the one on her desk.” Then she frowned. “The only problem is that I didn't get close enough to read which section it was.”

Emily shrugged. “It was the Style section. It's the only section she ever reads in _The Times._ But I don't see what good that knowledge might do us.”

Heather smiled knowingly at Emily. “Because maybe if we can figure out what did it, we can recreate it to change her mood on a bad day.”

Emily's eyes opened wide as the idea struck home. A way to change Miranda's mood from impossible-to-please to almost affable and willing to sit with two lowly assistants sharing dinner and light conversation. It was the holy grail of ideas, and all they had to do was figure out how _The Times'_ Style section had managed to turn around Miranda's mood one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees in a matter of minutes.

About eleven PM Miranda stepped from her office to announce they were through for the night and could go home. Emily immediately produced Miranda's coat and bag from the closet. Heather lingered at her desk as if finishing up some last minute item. Once the two conspirators heard the elevator doors close behind Miranda, they rushed into the woman's office. The section of the newspaper was missing from her desk. A quick search of the office revealed it in the trashcan. Lifting it like it was some ancient holy relic, Emily placed it on the desk, and the two women excitedly paged though it. On the second page they found a hole where something had been harvested from the still-damp newsprint. Heather sighed. “Now if we only knew what went here,” she said, fingering the edges of the cut newspaper.

Emily looked confused. “It's where the fashion column goes,” she said knitting her brow. “But why would Danielle Gold's column cheer Miranda up? She hates the woman with a passion.”

Heather nodded. “We need another copy of _The Times_. We need to read what is in this column.”

***

Danielle Gold sped down the Garden State Parkway in her BMW Z-3 toward Cape May. She marveled at how easy it had been to convince her admirer to blow off the work the woman was supposed to do at her law office this coming weekend. All she'd had to do was tell the woman that she's bought something new at Victoria's Secret and suggest that they again spend the weekend in front of the fireplace at the woman's summer house. Since being told on Tuesday that Sachs would be writing her column two days a week, Danielle had carefully whet her love-toy's appetite with applications of attention, flowers, and suggestive telephone conversations. After this weekend the woman would be convinced that she was Danielle's sole love and, if Danielle played her cards right, be more than willing to believe that Danielle was being sexually harassed by her boss at the newspaper. All Danielle had to do was continue to pepper their conversations with subtle complaints about work and shed a few crocodile tears. Then she’d allow her dalliance to draw the “truth” out of her.

Her devotee would be rightfully indignant about the harassment Danielle was suffering, and Danielle would settle the suit easily, of course. She was confident the paper would jump at the opportunity of keeping the mess out of the public eye by assuring her that she would continue being the fashion columnist and by firing both Karen and Andy Sachs. Danielle smiled and sang along with the radio. She always loved the rush she got when a plan came together.

***

As Andy prepared for bed in the late evening, the quiet of her apartment gave her the solitude to reflect on the day. It had only taken her a few days to conclude that becoming a fashion journalist was going to be a baptism by fire. Danielle Gold was seeing to that. Andy was still trying to handle the tensions between the fashion columnist and herself by not involving her superiors at the paper. So when she realized late Friday afternoon that she was not yet on any of the fashion houses’ or show producers’ radars, she also realized that there would be no invitations addressed to her for the shows to be held over the coming weekend. This, unfortunately, meant going hat-in-hand to Danielle Gold and begging her to give up one of her invitations so Andy would have something to write about in the coming week.

Andy had swallowed her pride and went to the woman. After searching laughingly through the material on her desk, Danielle had surrendered an invitation with a flourish and mockingly wished Andy good luck. Looking at the card Andy had known that she'd been had. The show, entitled _Halloween Haute Couture_ , wasn't even rated as a show that the paper would waste a photographer on. She was going to a “D” rated show by some designer no one had ever heard of.

Saturday September 29 th , 2009

Andy stood outside a run-down industrial space surrounded by garish signs in orange, black, and green advertising a seasonal haunted house opening at the location in just a week’s time. She glanced at the invitation and confirmed that this was the correct address. She sighed, reminding herself she was there representing _The Times_. She was determined to be professional. She was going to attend this show and accurately report on what she saw.

Upon entering she noticed the sparsely populated viewers' gallery. In the empty front row, reserved for the invited newspapers and magazines, Andy noticed a seat with a card indicating it was for _The Times_. When the show started, she was the only member of the press in attendance. Her heart went out to the designer, Orla Frostrop. It had to be hard to put her soul into something creative and then have so few of those invited take her seriously. Such thoughts reaffirmed her resolve to leave her preconceptions at the door and give the show a fair viewing.

The stage was surrounded and back-dropped with the cheesy sets built for the haunted house. As the room darkened and spotlights lit the catwalk, Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ blared from hidden loud speakers, and fog rolled down the runway. A number of performers from what must have been the haunted house’s costumed monsters shambled down the catwalk. When the first model hit the runway, Andy blinked. This was not at all what she was expecting. With the horrendous haunted house setting, ridiculous costumed monsters, and pop music, Andy had resigned herself to reviewing a tacky show. Yet, viewing the models elegantly gliding past her, Andy felt her spirits rise. The gown the first model wore was light-colored, flowing, gauzy, and ethereal, almost ghostly. It floated around her as if it had a life of its own as she strutted the length of the runway. Andy was immediately aware that what she was viewing was one of the jumps and starts in fashion she had so recently defended in her column. It was new, cutting edge, intriguing, and beautiful. Another model sashayed down the catwalk in a variation of the theme. Andy raised the digital camera she'd brought with her and started snapping pictures like a crazy person.

At the end of the show, Orla Frostrop walked out onto the runway among her models, all dressed in her designs. She surveyed the nearly empty room and hung her head. She had tried so hard, worked to do everything the way it was supposed to be done. The way she had learned from the pages of _Runway_ and her idol, Miranda Priestly. Her finances had been meager, her backers had been family and friends. She'd charged her own credit cards up to their limits, buying material for the fashions she'd created and renting the space for the show. She had argued about the name for the show with the cut-rate public relations firm she'd been forced to use due to budgetary constraints, but they'd assured her it would play well with the public. She sighed. She was ruined before she'd ever gotten a chance. It was then she noticed a camera flash from what she had thought was the empty press gallery.

The after-party was a revelation to the designer. Although an artist by temperament, Orla forced herself to accept the realities of business. She had striven to educate herself on every aspect of opening a fashion house she could think of, from accounting to what not to do with the dreaded zebra print that had become popular the year before. An avid reader of the fashion press since she was young, she had carefully studied every article she could lay her hands on over the last several years. She knew the truth about getting any positive publicity from Danielle Gold at _The Times_. She had decided some time ago that she had too much integrity and believed in her work too much to pander to the columnist, even though so many of the other designers did. She had sent no introductory gifts to the woman, only a plain invitation, just like she'd sent to every other newspaper and magazine. Now she sat speaking with _The Times'_ new probationary fashion columnist, who talked both knowledgeably and with understanding about her life's work. It was with no little surprise and great relief that she spent a pleasant two hours allowing Andy Sachs to interview her.

Sunday September 27th, 2009

Danielle stretched luxuriously on the rug in front of the fireplace as twilight colored the carpet around her. Last night Danielle had pretended to be distracted and withdrawn. She'd allowed her companion to “convince” her to speak of what was bothering her. Danielle had spun her web of lies: her editor, Karen, was demanding sexual favors of Danielle. If Danielle did not comply she would be replace by the new probationary reporter who had already traded sexual favors for a chance to write for the paper. Then Danielle had “allowed” her devotee to take her to bed and comfort her with reassurances that legal action could be taken to protect her. It had nearly been too easy. Seeing how easily she had fooled the well-meaning lawyer had excited Danielle to no end, which had resulted in great sex.

Danielle had spent this afternoon making a game out of getting what she wanted. For each page of the initial complaint for the lawsuit her girlfriend completed, Danielle teasingly had removed another article of clothing. She now lay in only bra and panties. She was well aware that her girlfriend's concentration wasn't completely on the job at hand. After the woman finished the page she was working on, Danielle would remove her bra, and then invite her companion to remove the rest. Just imagining the trouble Karen would soon find herself in and Danielle’s return to her rightful post as the sole fashion journalist aroused her enough to not mind being touched by her newest conquest. And soon Karen would be the one wishing she had never given up that right.

Monday September 28 th , 2009

Andy had spent the lion's share of Sunday at her desk at the paper working on her article for Wednesday's column. She was dismayed when she realized how much material she had. There was no way that she could use all of the photographs she'd taken, nor run all she had written in an outpouring of creative fervor. In fact, the unfortunate likelihood was that Wednesday's column would go to print without any photos. She looked at the digital images on her computer screen. There was magic in the pictures. She could see the evolutionary leap of fashion to the next stage clearly in front of her. She reached in her desk drawer and withdrew a USB flash drive. Inserting it into her computer, she saved the photos and the text of her complete, unedited interview. She placed the flash drive and a quickly-written note explaining what was on it in an envelope. Rising from her desk, Andy looked at the person in the cubicle next to hers. “I'm going out for a few hours,” she said.

Thirty minutes later Andy found herself standing in the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building and wondering about her sanity. In theory, it was simple. She'd walk up to the security desk and ask that the envelope be delivered to Miranda Priestly, Editor-in-Chief of _Runway_ magazine. Yeah, and that would work in a perfect world. Andy knew, however, that the world was far from perfect. Who was she to suggest to the woman who _was_ fashion that the ideas contained on the flash drive were worth anything? Nobody, that's who. Just then fate intervened when Andy saw the woman she had given her extra-hot venti latte to at the Starbucks across the street last week come out of the Elias-Clarke cafeteria.

***

Heather walked hurriedly across the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building. She had five more minutes in her scheduled lunch, but it was always a good idea to be early when dealing with her employer. Especially when said employer was in the type of mood she was in today. When she heard someone say “excuse me,” politely, Heather turned to look at the woman approaching her. “Venti latte,” she said, smiling.

“You remember,” Andy laughed.

Heather shared the laugh. “Oh yes,” she replied. “You saved my job that day. Miranda was in an impossible mood, and I was already late.”

Andy nodded. Heather noticed that she fidgeted as if she might be nervous.

“I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” Andy asked.

Heather's look turned cautious, but she nodded. “If I can,” she answered carefully.

Andy offered her an envelope. “I'm a reporter with _The Times,_ ” she said, then she chuckled nervously, “Well a probationary one, anyway. I was at a show on Saturday where I seemed to be the only press there. I thought what I saw was really good. I'm going to be writing about it in my column on Wednesday, but I feel that this designer deserves more help that I can give her. I thought if Ms. Priestly saw...” she babbled nervously.

Heather stiffened and looked around fearfully, “For God's sake don't call her that!” she whispered, having come to believe the widely-held _Runway_ superstition that if it was whispered in the Elias-Clarke building, somehow Miranda could hear it. “She absolutely hates to be called Ms. Priestly.”

Andy nodded in sudden understanding. “Maybe that's what I did to piss her off at that MoMA fashion retrospective a couple of weeks ago,” she offered.

Heather took the envelope from Andy's hand.”I can't promise anything...” she said, and then paused momentarily confused. “What did you say you name was?”

Andy flashed a megawatt smile. “Oh, how rude of me. It's Andy. Andy Sachs. I'm the probationary fashion columnist at _The Times_.”

Heather immediately recognized the name. She had gotten hold of a copy of Friday's _Times_ on the way home that night and read the fashion column that Miranda had so carefully harvested. The writing had impressed her, particularly the fact that one _Times'_ reporter had not hesitated to criticize another for an unwarranted attack on Miranda's age.

At the time she had read the article, she had assumed that Andy was a man with an unusual understanding of fashion. Now she was faced with the author of the article who was bringing Miranda something. Something the young woman who had helped her out when she needed it thought worth Miranda's while. “Like I said, I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do,” Heather said, turning toward the bank of elevators. “Now if you'll excuse me, I mustn’t be late.”

The ride up in the elevator seemed to take no time at all as Heather’s mind turned toward what to do with what she had in her hand. If an article by the woman she had met could turn Miranda's mood around, she wondered what a private note from the woman would do. However, just handing Miranda an unsolicited note from somebody who was not in the icon's inner circle also seemed like a good way to get fired. When Miranda was in a mood like she was this morning, she had a habit of shooting the messenger.

Heather walked in the office and over to Emily's desk. A glance into Miranda's office confirmed the woman was engrossed in a telephone conversation. She couldn't exactly hear what Miranda was saying, but judging by the quiet, icy tone she heard, she was glad that she wasn't on the receiving end of the call.

Emily glanced up from her desk as she continued to type like a madwoman on her computer. Heather could almost hear the words Miranda must have said a few minutes before. “ _If you don't have anything to do Emily, I'm sure you can find employment elsewhere, some place such as Walmart must be hiring...”_

Heather took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched into Miranda's office. She could feel Emily's alarmed eyes on her skin as they followed her in to the dragon's den. Heather's thought had been that she'd put the envelope she bore on Miranda's desk and slip out before the woman was off the phone, but luck wasn't with her. Miranda hung up suddenly without saying “goodbye.” The icon's cold, blue eyes followed Heather's hand as she place the envelope before the editor.

“What's this?” Miranda asked, her tone dangerously quiet and mild, marking Miranda at her most aggravated and volatile.

“It's a note from that new fashion columnist at _The Times,”_ Heather almost stammered. “I met her downstairs when I was coming back from lunch. She asked whether I'd deliver it to you.”

Miranda's eyes came up from her desktop. “You know her?” she asked.

Heather shrugged. “I wouldn't say I know her. I've met her. She did me a favor once before we ever introduced ourselves. She's ummm...I guess you'd say she's an acquaintance.”

Miranda gave an almost imperceptible nod. “That's all,” she said quietly. “Oh, and Heather,” she added, “close the door on your way out.”

***

Miranda's hand shook as she touched the envelope on her desk. Her life, while a triumph in the public realm, was rife with disappointments in her private life, as evidenced by three failed marriages and her two daughters, in their tweens, who were virtually strangers. She had acquaintances, but Nigel was the only one in her life she would consider a friend.

She caressed the envelope with the tip of one finger. She desperately wanted more, desperately wanted to know this other woman. This stranger that seemed to know her soul. Miranda was scared, but she was also Miranda Priestly, the icon, the Ice Queen, the one nothing ever touched. She steeled herself and tore open the envelope, dumping a USB flash drive on her desk. Curious, she withdrew the enclosed paper and, unfolding it, read its content.

_Ms. Priestly,_

_It is awkward to write this, as you do not know me, but I am, and have been for as long as I can remember, a great admirer of yours. I have eagerly read your words each month, and as silly as it sounds, I feel I almost know you. I am at the beginning of doing what I want to do with my life, and I have you, in part, to thank for that. You, who showed me the way. You, whose words inspired me to write and to pursue that which I care about, fashion._

_I know that I am not in your class. You are, as your skill and genius have made you and as you should be, the voice of fashion for our time. However, I attended a very underrated show this weekend. It is my firm belief that the designer, Orla Frostrop, is gifted and may, in my humble opinion, be the one to take fashion to the next level. I forward you the photographs I took of the show. I also enclose my initial musings on what I saw. It is far too much material to use in my column this coming Wednesday, and I will have to be brutal when I edit what poured out onto my computer keyboard. I hope that my ramblings might allow you to know something of the experience of being at the show and to see it through my eyes._

_With my greatest respect,_

_Andrea Sachs_

_Andrea_ , the thought thrilled through Miranda. _Her name is Andrea._ Her hand shook as she picked up the flash drive and plugged it into her computer to access the material saved on it.

Ten minutes later Miranda slammed open the door to her office hard enough to shake the glass that separated the outer office from the hallway leading to the elevators. Her glare was as cold as ice. Her demeanor shook her assistants. The dragon was breathing fire.

“Emily, Get Kendra and her senior staff from planning and get Nigel. I want everyone in the conference room in ten minutes. Then get a hold of a designer named Orla Frostrop. I want to see her show as soon as is possible. Do whatever is necessary to make it happen, including paying for it from the discretionary accounts. I want to see it as close to the original presentation as possible. Once you know when it is to occur, arrange for all our senior creative staff to be there. Arrange the rest of my schedule around whenever it can be held.” She turned to Heather. “Heather, take this flash drive. I want the pictures contained on it available in the conference room and ready to be projected on the big screen in a slide show format in time for the meeting. Then I want you at the meeting to take notes.”

***

The summoned individuals sat nervously in the conference room as the editor-in-chief of _Runway_ paced before them. She glared at those assembled and then viciously stabbed at the button on the remote control in her hand. She rapidly ran through five photographs. “What I want to know,” she said, quietly, dangerously, “is why I had to have a source from outside of our organization send me photographs of what are likely the most brilliant designs since Coco Chanel put pen to paper.” She glared at Kendra who was ultimately responsible for keeping what was presented in the magazine ahead of the fashion curve.

“Miranda,” Kendra stammered, “the show was called _Halloween Haute Couture,_ for God's sake. The designer is an unknown. Nobody took it seriously.”

Miranda turned on the woman, and her eyes flashed. “Wrong.” she snapped. “The new fashion columnist at _The Times_ took it seriously. Seriously enough that _she_ was there. That _she_ took a photographer with her. That _she_ took the time to interview the designer. _She_ is going to scoop _Runway_ by printing _her_ impressions of this new designer before _we_ can get to print. Your job is to be ahead of this kind of thing. We should have known about this designer before the October issue went to print. Then, we too could have played on the Halloween theme. As it is we are going to have to find a clever way to tie her spectral designs into the November issue.”

Nigel glanced at his employer. “Miranda,” he said quietly, “The November issue has already been sent over to the printer. It's due to run in the next day or so.”

“We will hold off releasing the November issue until we can feature this designer,” Miranda stated as she gazed once more at the illuminated photograph. Nigel,” she said, turning to the man, “I want you on point on this. We _will_ be on the cutting edge of the world finding out about this new designer. Kendra, you're fired. Heather, you'll arrange an introduction between Nigel and your acquaintance at _The Times_. This woman will write the piece. Do not bore me with tales of contractual difficulties. I expect to have her article in hand by the end of the week." Miranda's eyes blazed as she glanced at each person in the room, daring them to challenge what she had decreed. "Every great designer at one time was an unknown. We make them famous. We introduce them to the world." Waving her hand toward Kendra, she said, "How sad some have forgotten. That's all.”

***

Andy sat at her desk at _The Times_ looking at what was left of her clever article on Orla Frostrop. She had cut her twelve-page interview into the allowed six column inches the paper would print for a regular daily column. While the result was both well-written and amusing, it was not what she wanted to do for the designer. The woman's talent and artistic vision deserved so much more than the space she was allotted would allow. She sighed and read over her article again, looking for anything she could change to make it better. The phone on her desk rang, and she picked up the receiver. “Andy Sachs.” she said.

“Andy? This is Heather Gray, Miranda Priestly's assistant? Venti latte?”

“Yes, Heather,” Andy answered, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

“Andy, the material you sent over has caused quite a stir. Miranda would like you to meet with her art director, Nigel Kipling, as soon as possible.”

“Me? Meet with the art director of _Runway_? Whatever for?” Andy replied, confused.

“Well,” Heather said in a conspiratorial tone. “In the meeting she said something about you writing for _Runway_. Now when can you be available for a meeting with Nigel?”


	5. Chapter 5

Monday September 28 th , 2009

Orla Frostrop sat over a cup of tea at the small bistro table in her tiny studio apartment. She had come to New York from Liverpool to pursue her dream of being a designer, but like many artists she was constantly plagued with nagging doubt about her ability to translate what she saw in her head to the physical world.

She took comfort that her parents and family friends believed in her. They had financially invested likely more than they could really afford in her fledgling design studio. Now Andy Sachs, columnist for _The Times_ , believed that her designs were fresh and new and worthwhile. Orla just had to hold on for a few more days until Andy published her column on Wednesday. She hoped that the publicity would generate enough interest in her designs that her line would sell, and in the process, keep her body and soul together. Her cell phone rang, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Ms. Orla Frostrop?” a London accent, reminiscent of her former classmates’ intonation during her time in design school, said.

“Yes...” she answered carefully, wondering who could be calling.

“This is Emily Charlton, executive assistant to Miranda Priestly at _Runway_ magazine. Miranda would like to see your show as soon as it can be arranged,” the voice said.

Orla's heart stopped. She blinked. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes. “It isn't funny, Constance,” she snapped into the receiver. “I told Mum and Da how badly my show went on Saturday. I don't need my little sister sounding like a West End toff and teasing me about it!”

There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line, and then the voice said, “Do you really think I sound like I'm from the West End?”

Orla began to suspect that the caller was not her youngest sibling --who would have dissolved into gales of laughter by now--pulling a prank. “Yes,” she answered, trying to figure out who could be calling.

“I've worked very hard to erase the East End from my accent,” the voice confided. “So that's about the nicest thing that's been said to me in a long time. Now let me start again, Ms. Frostrop. My name is Emily Charlton. I'm Miranda Priestly's executive assistant. A reporter from _The Times_ sent some pictures of your show over to Miranda. Now Miranda wants to see your show as soon as you can possibly arrange it.”

“My...my show?” Orla stammered, “Miranda Priestly wants to see my show?”

“Yes, and I've been instructed to aid you by providing whatever support you might need to facilitate Miranda and _Runway's_ senior creative staff seeing the show as soon as is possible. She also asked that the presentation be as close to the original as is possible...”

***

Tuesday September 29 th 2009

Andy's meeting with the Nigel Kipling, the art director for _Runway_ , was surreal. Nigel had made a brief pitch to Andy during a short telephone conversation to write the kind of article for _Runway_ about Orla Frostrop that she had wanted to write for _The Times_ and hadn't had the space to do so. Andy could have told him during their initial talk that she would happily provide the article he wanted. She was unsure why he was so intent on meeting in person.

When they met for the first time at a five-star restaurant, Nigel raised an eyebrow. Andy immediately thought it was her outfit. She had considered carefully what to wear, knowing she was meeting with one of the movers-and-shakers of _Runway_ magazine. She had chosen a tuxedo dress she had picked up for the meeting at a Neiman-Marcus sale. It flattered her shape and showed her silk hose-encased legs to good advantage. Now over lunch, she felt as if she were under a microscope. This was Miranda Priestly's right-hand man, and the way that he was watching her was making her uncomfortable.

He smiled across the table. “So,” he said oh so casually amidst the flow of conversation. “How long have you and Miranda been seeing each other?”

Andy went into an extended fit of choking on the coffee she'd ordered with lunch.

***

Karen had just begun to feel in control of her life again. She was focusing on her job, not on making excuses and apologies to co-workers for her ex-girlfriend Danielle's behavior. She and Lily were talking on the phone on an almost nightly basis, and they had even talked about getting together over the weekend, although they hadn't made any firm plans about what to do, yet. As she walked into _The Time's_ building, returning to her office after lunch, a man she didn't recognize stepped into her path. “Excuse me,” he smiled. “Aren't you Karen Wilson? You work at _The Times_ , right?” he asked.

Karen glanced at him and smiled back uncertainly. He wasn't anyone she recognized. “Yes,” she answered somewhat awkwardly. “Yes, I am.”

He drew a sheaf of papers from his inside jacket pocket. “You've been served.” he said, handing her the papers. Then he turned and walked away down the busy street.

Karen glanced at the papers, shocked. It took a moment to decipher the convoluted legalese. She held the initial documents notifying her that she, Roger Hoskins, and _The Times_ were the defendants in a lawsuit. She was being sued for sexually harassing Danielle in the workplace. The editor-in-chief and _The Times_ were being sued for permitting a work environment that allowed such a thing. The ridiculous amount of money demanded in recompense was more than Karen would make while working her entire career. She stood frozen on the sidewalk for long moments, clutching the papers in her hand. She strongly suspected that Roger Hoskins already had doubts about her competence in her position as editor for the Style section. When her boss got wind of this situation, the papers she held in her hand were very likely to get her fired.

***

Miranda sat behind her desk, her lips slightly upturned and her eyes glittering. It was a good day. The added expense involved in freezing the print run for November's issue while determining what to pull in order to feature a designer no one other than “her” columnist had ever heard of was giving Irv Ravitz, CEO of Elias-Clarke, hives. She had also notified him during their meeting that she was going to have an unknown writer author the piece. It was always a good day when she could annoy Irv with impunity. _Runway_ was Elias-Clarke's flagship publication. The one whose monthly profits the organization relied upon for economic stability, as many of their publications struggled month to month. _Runway_ always generated a healthy profit, and despite Irv and his machinations, the board of directors knew that Miranda was solely responsible for the magazine's continued success. Irv could cry to them all he wanted, but as long as the profit margin stayed above a certain percentage, they weren't going to move against Miranda any time soon.

***

Danielle Gold sat with her lawyer-plaything in Roger Hoskin's office. She glanced at the efficient executive assistant as the woman buzzed around the office, obviously too busy to play her usual role of hostess. People waiting on the editor-in-chief's arrival were usually at the very least offered coffee. Roger's executive assistant acted politely cold and stiffly correct. She didn't offer either of the office visitors anything.

Roger entered with two of _The Times'_ legal team in tow. He took his seat behind his desk and motioned the two suits from legal to take chairs. Roger frowned at Danielle. “I understand that you'd like to set terms to make this lawsuit go away,” he stated.

Danielle's lawyer attempted to speak, but Danielle shushed her with a look. The egocentric columnist smiled a wicked smile at the editor-in-chief of arguably one of the most powerful newspapers in the world. She nodded. “Let's be real, Roger,” she said, smirking. “You need this to go away. Nobody, not even _The Times_ , can stand the kind of press shit-storm that a story like this will generate. My lawyer has already done the paperwork. I can give a press conference by tonight and make the eleven o'clock news cycle. By tomorrow morning all the other newspapers will be licking their chops as _The Times_ crashes and burns. Give me what I want, or this is going to get really ugly, really quickly.”

Roger looked coldly across the desk. “You called this meeting Ms Gold. I've talked with my people in legal, and they have suggested I hear you out. I'm here, and I'm listening.”

Danielle smiled an evil smile. “I keep my position here at _The Times...a_ s the _only_ fashion columnist. You fire Karen Wilson, and you get rid of that want-to-be, Andy Sachs. Do that, and this can all go away.”

Roger glanced at Danielle's lawyer. “And you, Ms. Parnell? Are you on board with a resolution that doesn't garner your firm a large financial settlement from which to draw revenue?”

Cynthia Parnell swallowed and spoke. “I'm here representing Ms. Gold's interests, Mr. Hoskins. I will support that which satisfies my client.”

Roger smiled. “You know I spoke earlier today to one of the senior partners at your firm, Ms. Parnell. He had good things to say about you, although he was unaware that you had initiated this suit, and he expressed his concern about you're doing so without informing the senior partners, especially considering that I have been personally named in the lawsuit.”

Danielle, surprised at this, glanced at her lawyer and noted the woman's suddenly uncertain expression.

Roger smiled, “As you certainly know, _The Times_ is not a client of your firm, but if you'd checked, you would have found that I, in my private life, most certainly am and have been for more than a decade. I believe that your senior partners would like to have a word with you about the fact that they were not in the loop about this litigation.”

Cynthia Parnell blanched. “Mr. Hoskins,” she said softly, “I'd like to offer you my sincere apologies. I was unaware that you were a client of my firm.”

Danielle's turned and watched her plaything squirm, embarrassed. _The cowardly little bitch is probably worried about losing her pathetic job. Like what might happen to her is more important than me getting what I want! But I still need the stupid cow for a while,_ Danielle thought angrily. With narrowed eyes she turned back and addressed Roger. “You think the fact that you use her firm changes anything? You can't intimidate us!” she said, her volume rising.

Roger nodded as he turned his attention to Danielle. His tone and bearing remained consummately professional. “I have no intention of intimidating anyone, Ms. Gold. You have leveled charges at a co-worker. Corporate policy dictates that Karen Wilson must be placed on paid leave until an internal investigation into the allegations outlined in your lawsuit is completed and a decision is made by management on what the proper course of action will be.”

“What about Danielle?” Cynthia interjected, trying to regain some semblance of control, professionalism, and merit, as well as some standing in her beloved's eyes. “Will you place her on paid leave as well? We will not tolerate anything that smacks of retaliation.”

Roger sighed softly, obviously finding what he said next distasteful. “No, we will not be placing Ms. Gold on paid leave. Corporate policy dictates that she remain working at her present salary until such time as our internal investigation is complete and a decision is made about what management's course of action will be. That being said, it is at _MY_ discretion where in this paper she works while this process runs its course. I don't believe that giving her a public platform from which to vent is in _The Times’_ best interests _._ Consequently, Ms Gold, you will be working in copywriting / fact checking under Jack Prentice for the duration of the investigation.”

Danielle rose angrily from her chair. “You’re demoting me?” she shrieked. “You don't dare demote me. I'm the best thing this paper has ever seen! I'm why people buy this stupid paper!”

Cynthia touched the angry woman's arm, trying to get her attention. “Danielle,” she said gently, trying to calm her. Anger now only would serve to exacerbate the situation. “Danielle,” she said again, a bit more forcefully. “They are within their rights. You have to work where they tell you to within the company. If you don't, they have grounds for termination.”

Danielle turned and glared at her plaything. “You useless, spineless bitch,” she snarled. “If you don't have the guts for this, I can have another lawyer in an hour! One with the balls to sue this paper into the ground!”

“As for your demands, Ms. Gold,” Roger said equitably, watching the frothing woman, “you can, as they say, stick them. _No one_ , Ms. Gold,” he exclaimed coldly, slapping his hand down on his desk, “no _one_ tells me who I employ!”

“I'll have this lawsuit on the front page of every newspaper and on every news program before tomorrow morning!” Danielle ranted. “I'll plaster this all over the media! See how your precious shareholders like it when you're losing market shares because of the bad publicity!”

“You want to make this a war, Ms. Gold? Bring it on!” Roger snapped. “I don't believe in interfering with my editors’ departments. So, I haven't intervened even though we've had a marked decrease in readership of the Fashion column since you had taken it over. I have a thick file of complaint letters from readers to prove it. I also have a number of complaints from your co-workers that were filed with HR. You were Karen's problem to deal with until this lawsuit. Now you've made it my problem. And I resolve my problems, Ms. Gold. While you're working down in fact checking, _The Times_ shall have a capable new fashion columnist. She will be responsible for the daily and weekend column.” He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Carol,” he said, “would you please call security? They are to come immediately to my office and escort Ms. Gold down to copywriting / fact checking. Her _Times_ ' reporter press credentials are to be seized, and until such time as the internal investigation of her allegations is complete, she is to have an escort whenever she leaves the department she's been assigned to.”

“You can't do this!” Danielle exclaimed. “You don't dare!”

“Not only can I, Ms. Gold, he said softly, “it's done. By the time we go to press tonight, Andy Sachs will take over the Fashion column duties for _The Times,_ and by the time the investigation is over, your public will have become her public. Now get out of my office. Your narcissistic egomania makes me sick!”

Danielle looked at her lawyer. “Do something, you pathetic cow!” she screamed at the woman.

Just then two security officers arrived to escort her to her new post.

Cynthia looked at Danielle sadly. “Go with them for now, Danielle,” she said quietly. “I'll try to get this sorted out.”

Danielle left in a huff.

Cynthia looked at Roger Hoskins behind the desk. “Mr. Hoskins,” she began professionally, “what can we expect?”

Roger turned slightly in his chair and spoke sadly. “What Ms. Gold can expect is a fight, Ms. Parnell. I do not submit when threatened, and if I have anything to say about it with the board of directors, _The Times_ will fight this lawsuit tooth and nail. And, off the record, what you can expect is a whole world of hurt.” Roger glanced at Cynthia. “You know, Ms. Parnell, Mr. Barnaby at your firm spoke of your abilities with both respect and affection. I'd have been surprised that you hadn't vetted your client better to have a clear picture of what's really happening here and how badly it's likely to turn out for you personally if I hadn't seen this situation played out before in Ms. Gold's relationship with Karen Wilson. She lured Karen in just as she has you. She got all she could out of her, and now she's in the process of tossing Karen away.”

Cynthia stiffened as if struck. Roger looked deeply into her hurt eyes. “I understand that she's your client, and you have an ethical responsibility to do your best for her, but I also understand that representing a person you are romantically involved with is frowned upon by many law firms. I think,” he said, “that you'd better go have a talk with the senior partners at your firm. Perhaps they can think of a solution to this mess that will satisfy everybody concerned without compromising your professional ethics.”

Cynthia nodded and, after gathering her briefcase and coat, left the office without another word.

Roger sighed softly and glanced at the two suits from legal. “Yes,” he said, without their prompting. “I know Danielle is going to sue us no matter what happens. If Barnaby, Greer and Treat withdraws, she'll just get another lawyer. We have deep pockets, and with the way Danielle twists things, most lawyers will not think twice before taking such a case. Gentlemen, we've been sued before, and we'll very likely be sued again in the future. If ever there was a case where we have a decent chance of winning before a judge, it's this one. Get with HR and pull her file. You should find plenty of material documenting her unprofessional behavior. Then start talking to people she's worked with. I'll have the Style department send up the file of letters about the Fashion column, and I'll have marketing / demographics send up the reports that show how readership of the Fashion column have been trending downward and how that has affected the bottom line. I don't think we'll have any trouble showing she is more of a liability than an asset and that she has trumped up these charges. If anything, I think we can prove she’s created a hostile work environment.”

The two suits left his office, and Carol appeared like magic. She opened a small brown paper bag and silently produced a bottle of Gaviscon Liquid Antacid. He glanced up and smiled at the woman who made his life at work livable. “Bless you,” he said softly, reaching for the bottle. He opened the bottle, took a long sip, and sighed happily. “You know the way to my heart,” he chuckled. Then he was back to all business.

“We need to be ahead of this. Danielle will be contacting other press outlets, and we need to have answers ready. Contact Jack Prentice in copy and fact checking. Have him have his best people start writing copy. I don't want it to be apologetic, just statements of fact to let our readers know that we are engaging in a thorough internal investigation. Have Jack personally look over the copy and then have him run it by legal, too. Make sure you contact somebody up there and have them stay late enough to read it. God knows legal seems to be the first people out of the building every evening. I want the copy completed as soon as possible so that immediately after she launches the first volley in the media we'll be ready to go to print with our side of the story.”

“Have Sachs' column that’s due tomorrow run tonight. I want the photography department to take her picture to run beside her by-line. Contact HR and tell them that while she's still on probation, I want her salary bumped to that of a new reporter. God knows she's going to earn it.” He stopped for a moment and took another swig from the bottle in his hand.

“What about Karen Wilson?” Carol asked softly.

Roger nodded. “You like her, don't you?”

Carol nodded. “I think she has the potential to do _The Times_ proud,” she answered quietly but firmly. “I think if she can separate her personal from her professional life, she'll grow into a great editor. And I think you should watch your job because she's got the chops to fill your shoes one day.”

Roger smiled at the woman who kept him sane. Their mutual respect and admiration have grown over years of working together. Many have joked that she is his work-wife. She certainly knows him well enough. Fortunately, their respective spouses get along, too. He trusts her judgment. He nodded. “What's my schedule look like for the rest of the day?” he asked.

Carol glanced at the pad she always carried. “You have a two-thirty with Brubaker from advertising about falling revenue and a three o'clock with O'Grady from Distribution about the potential trucking problem in Queens due to the proposed driver's strike. You also have a four thirty.”

Roger nodded. “I'm too busy to see her before six, and 'officially' I can't say anything to advise her. If someone were to let her know what's happening and suggest to her she has until then to put her desk in order and to make sure everything in her department is under control, that should give her time to make it a controlled hand-off of her responsibilities to whomever she chooses to handle them while she's off. I'm going to have to suspend her with pay until the investigation is complete. I don't have any choice in that, and there will have to be disciplinary action. But if she were to request to take whatever vacation time she has accumulated...” he glanced up at Carol, whose eyes twinkled as they always did when they were scheming together.

“Just short of two weeks. Nine days and some hours,” Carol supplied.

Roger sighed happily. It was so good to work with someone who knew what he was going to want and need before he had to ask for it. “If she were to request to take whatever vacation time she has accumulated,” he repeated, “starting at six-thirty tonight, I can guarantee that it would be approved. That would buy us almost two weeks before I'd have to take official action, and it would keep it out of her HR jacket for that long. Don't want to mess up any possible future promotions if we can help it, do we?” he said lightly.

Carol nodded and turned to go. Stopping, she turned back. “And don't let her resign. She'll try to. She's embarrassed that she’s let this happen. She feels the need to pay for the trouble she's caused. She'll try to fall on her sword.”

Roger laughed. “Don't worry Carol. I think I can convince her that I intend to keep her around so I can make her life a living hell.”

Carol laughed as she again turned to leave the office. Roger recalled something she had said earlier. “Carol, he asked, “You said I have a four-thirty, but you didn't tell me what it was.”

“Oh, didn't I?” Carol said innocently. “Your doctor called. Someone mysteriously told him about the amount of antacids you've been taking to control the pain from your ulcers. He wants to see you and have a few words about that. At four-thirty this afternoon.”

Roger blanched behind his desk and then sputtered, “You know, if I could get by without you I think I'd kill you right now.”

Carol laughed as she passed through the door to the outer office. “Yes, but you can't, so you won't.

***

Andy visibly struggled to get hold of herself. “Seeing Miranda Priestly?” she exclaimed to Nigel “I assure you, sir, I have met Ms. Priestly all of one time. At the MoMA event a few weeks ago. And I accidentally did something to offend her there. I am not and have not been seeing Ms. Priestly.”

Nigel grinned, _Oh this is just too good to be true_ , he thought to himself, incredibly amused by the situation. _She doesn't even understand what's happening. I wonder if Miranda even knows._ “Oh, sorry,” he answered aloud. “I must have misunderstood something that was said. My mistake.”

During the rest of their lunch meeting Andy seemed very spooked. Nigel found that extremely interesting.

***

Wednesday September 30 th , 2009

Early Wednesday found Miranda at her desk in her office going through her daily morning ritual of drinking her first latte and reading different print media. Not having much interest in reading Danielle Gold's column, she saved _The Times_ for last. “Her” columnist, Andrea Sachs, was not due to appear in print again until the evening edition today. She turned to the Style section and was surprised to see a small picture of “her” columnist beside an Andy Sachs by-line. The article was well-written, crammed with information, and in six meager column inches, she gave the reader a sense of the magic that she had encountered at an unknown designer's fashion show over the weekend. The culmination of the article was a homage to Orla Frostrop that would open the eyes of any who took the time to read the column. Miranda felt herself relax. It was as if the woman's words on the printed page were a balm for the plague of incompetence Miranda suffered each day. Miranda smiled and softly called out, “Emily.”

Emily was in the office doorway within seconds. “Yes, Miranda?” she said.

“I want a bouquet of flowers sent to the new Fashion columnist at _The Times_. A large bouquet. Something impressive. Use the company that dressed our spring shoot. The owner seemed to have some passion about her art. Have whatever it costs charged to my personal account. That's all.”

Emily made a note on her pad and disappeared from the doorway.

Miranda closed her eyes and hummed happily to herself. She felt calm, relaxed, an all too rare occurrence. Then a thought occurred to her. _If Emily orders the flowers, the gesture won't be personal._ And suddenly it was extremely important to Miranda that the gesture be just that. Rising from her seat she walked into the outer office. “Emily,” she said, “don't bother with my previous instruction. Instead summon my car and give the address of the florist to Roy when you speak to him. I'll go there myself and pick out what I want to send.” She turned to Heather and said “Coat, bag.”

Emily looked at Miranda wide-eyed, as if she'd just started speaking in Latin. “Ummm,” she sputtered. “You'll....go....”

Miranda looked at Emily with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips as Heather settled the coat on her shoulders. “Do you think I'm incapable of something as simple as buying a bouquet of flowers?” the icon asked coldly.

“No, Miranda, of course not. It's just, you usually leave such menial duties to us,” she stammered, indicating herself and Heather with a gesture.

The look Heather shot Emily from behind Miranda's back clearly conveyed _don't drag me into this. I'm not the one that put my foot in my mouth by saying something stupid_.

Miranda blew air through her nose. “Buying the proper selection of flowers for a visionary such as the new columnist at _The Times_ is _NOT_ a menial task. It is exactly that kind of thinking which reinforces my contention that I must do everything myself if I want anything done correctly,” she said, sweeping from the office. The elevator doors parted before her as if aware that any delay would be dealt with harshly, disgorging Nigel.

“I have the proofs from the Vale shoot,” he said as she strode past him and into the elevator.

“Bore someone else with them,” she snapped just before the elevator doors closed.

***

Nigel entered Miranda's outer office and glanced at Emily who was staring in the direction of the elevators. He handed her the folder of photographs he carried. “She's going to want those at some point soon,” he said glancing in the same direction Emily's eyes were fixed. “What's with her, anyway?”

Emily shook her head. “Who bloody well knows?” she exclaimed quietly. “First she's getting her own coffee and now flowers if you can believe it.”

Nigel's head cocked, suddenly interested. “Really,” he drawled. “Did she happen to say who she was getting flowers for?”

Emily nodded, “The ’visionary’ new fashion columnist over at _The Times,_ ” she answered.

Nigel smiled to himself and spoke softly. “Oh she's a vision all right.”

***

During the elevator ride back down to his office Nigel considered his employer and friend. She was obviously interested in this new columnist. Her attraction had been immediate as demonstrated by her actions on the red carpet at the MoMA event. Perhaps she has begun to realize her interest is in more than just a well turned-out Elie Saab gown.

Several times recently Miranda had sent him copies of The Times and a cup of his favorite coffee. This gift of coffee was a sort of a code between them. It said that what Miranda desired from him was his personal opinion, not the considered opinion of her Art Director. Each time, the opinion requested was on the fashion column. Each article had been written by Andy Sachs. And now flowers...flowers that she, herself, had gone to pick out. He knew from his long experience with Miranda that this was serious from her perspective. She was intent on courting the woman. Nigel would lay good money down, though, that the fashion goddess didn't quite realize what her intentions were, yet.

From their having lunch together, he had formed an opinion of the journalist. She was nice enough, sweet and somewhat naïve. She had also pinged his gaydar. So if Miranda was interested and Andy was gay, getting them together shouldn't prove terribly difficult for someone with Nigel's wide-ranging abilities. Managing to keep them together long enough for anything real to grow between them once they had managed a couple of dates, however, was an entirely different proposition. The difficulty was that Miranda was...well,...Miranda. She could be demanding, difficult, and abrasive on her best days. A perfectionist in her professional life and a damned disaster in her private one. No, his friend and colleague would need his help with this more than she would need his help with the tacky Vale shoot he'd just delivered. Nigel's mind turned toward how to assist his friend in her pursuit of Andy Sachs.

***

Miranda stood before a stainless steel work table, a pair of flower shears in one hand and a stem in the other. She considered the arrangement that she was working on. The woman who owned this flower studio had shown Miranda a dozen photographs of beautiful ideas for arrangements, and then, without Miranda's prompting, she had seemed to divine what Miranda truly wanted, suggesting that Miranda herself create the bouquet. Miranda had already spent a most enjoyable thirty minutes selecting beautiful flowers for “her” beautiful columnist. Her “beautiful” columnist...the thought struck her like a lightning bolt. Here she stood arranging flowers for a woman she'd met only once, during which time she had rejected her because of the woman's association with _The Times._ Now words found in a single one of her columns soothed Miranda like nothing short of a spa weekend.

No one save Nigel had any idea of Miranda's romantic history. Those closest to her had been told polite fictions, and even Nigel had been given heavily edited accounts. Even though Miranda had married three times, she rarely fell in love, and when she did fall, she fell quickly and hard. The Ice Queen's most closely guarded secret was that she was a closet romantic who had experienced intensely passionate love at first sight exactly twice in her life.

The first time was when she was twenty-two years of age, just out of college and very early in her career. She had been sent to French _Runway_ to “learn the ropes”. She met Jacqueline Follet during her first hours at work. By the end of the first day they had dined together. By the end of the first week they were sharing a bed and had created a pact between them that they would make love on every surface in both of their small apartments. The bliss had lasted almost two years while they both learned the fashion magazine trade in what Miranda considered the most beautiful and fascinating city in the world. It had ended badly when their tyrannical boss had put them both up for the same promotion to New York _Runway_. Driven by ambition, each badly wanted the job. The rivalry tore their relationship asunder. Miranda, heartbroken, ended it after Jacqueline attempted to sabotage her at work. Miranda won the promotion and transferred to New York _Runway_ as a junior editor. Deciding that the pain wasn't worth the price, Miranda had resolved to focus on her career and what she wanted to become. From there Miranda's rise to editor-in-chief of _Runway_ was meteoric. The rivalry between the two women remained, and over the intervening decades what had once been love and passion had turned into bitterness and hatred.

Miranda was thirty-three before she met Brandon Chase, the father of her two girls. They were married within a year of their first meeting. While their love was passionate, it was also destructive. The increasing demands on her time and the additional responsibilities at the magazine coupled with the stresses of her husband's career had created tension between them. Three years into the marriage Miranda and Brandon had decided to have a child to save what was already a struggling marriage. The birth of her beautiful twin daughters at thirty-six is still in Miranda's mind her greatest accomplishment. Unfortunately, the added demands of family only intensified and already tenuous situation. By the time the girls were three, Brandon had engaged in a number of less than discreet affairs. The numerous newspaper gossip column accounts chronicling his multiple indiscretions were the final nail in the coffin that was their marriage, and humiliated, Miranda had demanded a divorce.

Her two most recent marriages were more like business transactions in her mind. Matters of convenience founded in a belief that her cherished daughters should have a father figure. Neither man she had married had been the kind of man they had represented themselves as. Both men had pretended to be content with her career and all the demands it made upon her time. What they had really wanted was a trophy wife. They loved the idea that they were on the arm of _the_ Miranda Priestly, that they were the ones who had tamed the feared and fabled Dragon Lady and brought the famed Devil in Heels to heel. Although while courting they had paid attention to her beloved children, once married they had showed no continued interest in nurturing them. The second husband had even gone so far as suggesting a boarding school overseas. That marriage had ended that very night.

The less time considering her present entanglement to the drunkard Stephen the better. That marriage should have never taken place, and the sooner the divorce was finalized the better. The rotten bastard hadn't even the courage to face her. He'd waited until she'd been sent to Milan to oversee an extremely expensive photo shoot before he’d called whining for a divorce. She had faced that alone, as she had faced most of the events in her life.

Now she stood on a precipice. She was extremely attracted to a journalist likely half her age. One whom she believed experienced the greatest love of her life, fashion, as she did. She was aware from her own life experience that she was already quite “gone” on the woman. As she considered the perfect placement of the flower in her hand into the arrangement she was struggling to create, Miranda also struggled with what course of action to take. For, she planned to take action. She would not --could not-- deny herself the happiness, however momentary, that having the girl in her life would cause. Miranda had experienced far too much pain and disappointment in her life not to seize the moments of joy and pleasure when they were all too infrequently offered. She knew that she must try to find a way to make Andrea Sachs a part of her life. Even if she ended up alone and heartbroken for all her efforts.

This time she would find a way to not fail in the personal realm. This time she would compromise as needed to create a lasting relationship. This time she would make it work because she thought it likely that she had experienced love at first sight for the last time in her life. And she was determined to prove that the third time was the charm.


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday October 1st, 2009   
  
Orla Frostrop stood frozen with fear as she peeked out from behind the cheap garish sets of the haunted house. Fog poured from the fog machine and rolled down the runway. The Halloween attraction's actors were all made up and in costume, ready to shamble down the catwalk. The dressers, stylists, and makeup artists were fussing with last minute touch-ups as the models in her couture waited to stroll to the end of the stage. In moments Michael Jackson's Thriller would blare from hidden loudspeakers, and the show would begin.  
  
Miranda Priestly... _The_ Miranda Priestly had descended with what must be her magazine's entire creative staff. There were more people from Runway magazine here now than the total attendance of her first show less than a week ago. The Icon sat not twenty feet away from her in an uncomfortable metal chair with lips firmly pursed. Orla knew the legend of La Priestly; anyone who gave half a damn about fashion in this town did. She knew what pursed lips meant. The Devil in Heels was not pleased with what she was seeing.  
  
Orla glanced around nervously, the sets, the fog, the cheap cobbled together catwalk, the cheesy monster costumes, nothing was good enough. Nothing here rated the Ice Queen's attention. This was all Andy Sachs' fault, and when she saw the columnist again she intended to strangle her with her bare hands. Then her eyes fell on one of her designs worn by a model who was waiting to take her stroll down the runway. Something here was good enough. Orla believed in her work. And Andy did too, believed enough to write about it in her column and to go out of her way to make this moment possible. Orla sighed. In for a penny in for a pound, she thought looking at her stage manager and giving him the nod. He signaled one of the crew. With the flip of a switch the first strains of Thriller burst from the speakers, and the first of the monsters shambled down the catwalk followed closely by the first of her designs.  
  
***  
  
The end of the presentation came all too swiftly for Miranda's liking. Suddenly it was done, and Orla Frostrop was standing on stage among her designs accepting flowers from one of the models. Miranda had waited for most of her life for this moment. Before her was a raw talent unlike anything she had encountered before. In a hundred years they would speak of Coco Chanel, Orla Frostrop, and the other greats in the same breath, and she, Miranda Priestly, would be the hand that forged this potential legend into one of the immortals. She spoke over her shoulder to Emily. “I will be taking Ms. Frostrop to lunch at Keens Steakhouse. Make reservations immediately. Have the collection moved to Runway. We will be featuring one, three, six, seven, ten and twelve in the November issue. Have Nigel find appropriately sized models. I want photo shoot concepts that play on the ghostly beauty of the designs on my desk before I return to the office from lunch. We will shoot tomorrow. Call Massimo to do the photography. If necessary remind him that he owes me for forgiving him that tacky Vale debacle. The balance of the collection will be the centerpiece of January's issue,” she instructed. Then she rose from her seat and smiling softly, applauded the designer.  
  
***  
  
With her column for tonight already put to bed, the one for tomorrow ready for an editor to review, and her interview article of Orla Frostrop polished to shining and e-mailed to Nigel Kipling at Runway, Andy took a long moment to consider the bouquet that had been delivered early this morning. It had arrived sans card so she had no idea who sent it. The arrangement was unusual. The flowers used were widely varied, beautiful, a riot of shapes and colors. The arrangement itself was very formal with types of flowers tightly bunched by colors and size. On an inebriated evening several years ago, her best friend Lily, who at the time had been working for a florist, had postulated an elaborate theory that you could tell a great deal about the person who sent a bouquet from the flowers contained there-in and the way said flowers were arranged. Andy couldn't for the life of her remember all the subtleties of Lily's theory, but she wanted to know everything she could about whoever anonymously sent the beautiful bouquet. She picked up the phone and dialed Lily. Drinks at Andy's place after work were definitely on the menu.  
  
***  
  
Orla sat across a crystal and silver dressed table in, she was certain, one of the fanciest eateries in New York City. In a few moments her meal would be delivered, as if she was really going to be able to eat anything. She was far too nervous. Across from her sat Miranda. She swallowed and blinked again. It was like a beautiful dream. Here she sat, unbelieving that she was now on a first name basis with Miranda Priestly. Miranda, who claimed to like her work and wanted to be her patron. By a force of will she brought herself back to focus on what Miranda was saying.   
  
“Paris fashion week is in three weeks,” Miranda said quietly as she stirred her coffee. “We will need to have the sets broken down and shipped immediately. Coordinate with Emily on what you require. My other assistant Heather will make arrangements for transportation and lodging for your models and actors. I understand that time is short, but I do hope you'll consider working with Nigel to select different musical accompaniment. Michael Jackson has just been done to death.”  
  
“Paris?” Orla began, “Models and actors?...Miranda, the sets don't belong to me. I borrowed them from the man the runs the haunted house. The actors are volunteers that play the monsters in the haunted house. My stage hands are friends of mine. The models are the only people who were paid. Finances have been a...challenge. I...I want to cooperate...but I don't own...”  
  
“Nonsense,” Miranda answered, her tone almost bored. “You have too incredible a future as a designer ahead of you to allow such a little thing to stop us. Just call Emily. What you need to show in Paris, Runway will provide. I just ask that when the time comes, you remember who your friends are.”  
  
Orla's heart almost stopped. Miranda Priestly believed in her and had just called her a friend.  
  
***  
  
Cynthia Parnell stood stiffly in the office of the senior partner, Randolph Barnaby, of Barnaby, Greer and Treat, the law firm where she was a junior partner. He shook his head and sighed. “What were you thinking?” he asked. “Roger Hoskins is a long term client of this firm. This suit you filed embarrassed us. Both Treat and Greer want me to fire you.”  
  
Cynthia nodded and shamed, hung her head, “I understand sir.”  
  
“Oh no,” Barnaby said. “You don't get off that easy. I've used my senior partner status and intervened. You are, by God, going to stay here and clean up your mess. You have too much potential to become a great lawyer. I am not going to allow your lapse in judgment to end a promising career.”  
  
Cynthia looked at the man she considered a mentor. “What is it you want me to do?” she asked softly, beginning to hope that her career as a lawyer might somehow survive the hole she'd dug herself.  
  
Barnaby looked at her. “The paperwork for the suit has been served but there hasn't been time for any response yet. You still are within the window of opportunity where you can withdraw as Ms. Gold's counsel. You will notify the court and Ms. Gold that you are doing just that. Barnaby, Greer and Treat will not be going forward with this law suit and if you wish to remain part of this firm neither will you.”  
  
***  
  
After two glasses of an inexpensive but tasty Chardonnay Andy showed Lily the flowers. Lily walked around the arrangement carefully considering the types and colors. Andy knew that with her art background and having worked her way though college in a florist’s shop, Lily knew what each individual stem was supposed to signify. She trusted her friend's interpretation. “No card?” Lily asked.  
  
“Nope,” Andy responded. “Just the flowers.”  
  
“And the vase?” Lily asked.  
  
“Came with the bouquet,” Andy answered pouring both of them another glass of wine.  
  
“Girl,” Lily said, “that vase is Waterford crystal. It goes for well over a hundred bucks. The cost of individual stems is all over the place but the whole arrangement cost four to five hundred bucks, easy.” She glanced at her friend. “You sure some rich guy didn't get lucky recently?” she asked, teasing.  
  
Andy smiled and handed her the refilled wineglass. “Not unless my whole sexual history is out the window,” she laughed, “and when I went on the only date I've had in forever, my best friend stepped in and stole the woman I was out with.”  
  
“Not my fault that Karen has good taste,” Lily said, smiling evilly and sipping her wine.  
  
“Ouch. Okay, you win,” Andy laughed. “Now tell me about this person I don't know that would spend so much to send me flowers.”  
  
Lily nodded and considered the flower arrangement again. “Girl, you just have to look at it to know that the person who sent this is passionate, fiery,” she began. “Look at the way the colors are used. But you can tell from the formality in the arrangement that the fires are carefully banked. The person is artistic but very controlled. And she knows her flowers.”  
  
Andy looked at Lily. “She?” she asked.  
  
Lily nodded. “Unless a gay man sent you an expensive flower arrangement to say he's madly in love with you, a woman made this. No straight guy I've ever met knows as much about what flowers mean as the person who put this bouquet together does.”  
  
Andy, thinking, shook her head. “The florist could be female. You used to put together arrangements that said what the people buying them asked you to make them say.”  
  
Lily shook her head. “Too many rules are broken in this arrangement. No professional did this. They wouldn't have bunched the individual types of flowers together but would have spread them out through the arrangement. That's where I get how controlled this person is. I'd say she's almost rigid.”  
  
Andy's eyes opened wide. “You said...in love...”  
  
“I said madly in love,” Lily grinned. “That's what every stem in this thing tells me. This isn't a bouquet, it's a love letter. First start with the roses, all thorn-less, which means 'love at first sight' in the what-flowers-mean dictionary. Then the colors of roses selected: red roses equal 'I love you,’ but every idiot knows that. Pink usually means 'perfect happiness,' but in this case I think it's used for its other meaning which is 'please believe me.’ The primroses mean 'I can't live without you'. The gardenias mean 'you’re my secret love.' With the carnations, pink is for 'I'll never forget you' and red for 'my heart aches for you.' The gloxinia means 'love at first sight’ again—that seems to be a recurring theme.” Lily chuckled and sipped her wine before continuing. “The rest of the flowers all tell the same story from the arbutus to the red tulips. Whoever she is, Andy, she's got it bad for you, and I'm hurt you’ve never mentioned anything like this might be going on. Now spill, girl, who do you know that could be pining for you big time?”  
  
The image of a white haired goddess flashed through Andy's mind, but that thought was laughable. As much as she might fantasize about it, the Ice Queen did not pine after junior fashion columnists. “As God is my witness Lils,” Andy said, her wide eyes looking from Lily to the bouquet and back again, “there's not a soul I can think of.”   
  
***  
  
As twilight turned to darkness Miranda stood stiffly, looking out her office window. She detested cowards, and she felt herself one. At the last moment yesterday she had withheld the card she had written and sent the flowers to Andrea anonymously. She longed to know what “her” columnist thought of them. She wondered if the woman...if Andrea...had any clue who they might be from. She knew the desire for Andrea to somehow recognize that she had sent them was ridiculous. She had met the woman only once, and she hadn't been very nice to her then. She needed to meet the woman again, but how to arrange it? Andrea was writing the November article on Orla Frostrop. Delivery was due by Friday morning. Nigel was handling that, and there was really no reasonable cause for Miranda to involve herself. Her mind turned to the problem at hand. An invitation to dine was too forward. Their first meeting must be kept casual, within the bounds of propriety. They did not attend the same social circles, so an introduction at a party was unlikely. It was possible that Miranda could arrange for Andrea to attend any number of the benefits and charitable functions that she would attend. The Times would want to cover those events. The difficulty lay in the fact that Paris Fashion Week was looming, and Miranda’s schedule was so full that she simply did not attend such events. There was too much to do at work. She sighed, frustrated with the knotty problem.  
  
She glanced again at the latest copy of The Times on her desk. Tonight's column was again a triumph. It was a frank look at what Miranda thought was a terribly tacky trend of wearing Ugg fur-lined boots with shorts or a miniskirt during the summer. Andrea attacked this hideous fashion faux pas as presented in Miranda's rival magazine Vogue, taking Anna Wintour to task for featuring a model in the get-up with dry wit as sharp as a scalpel. Miranda closed her eyes and could see Andrea's printed bon mot:   
  
_The model, looking much like a clash between Joan of the Arctic and Malibu Barbie in a hot pink tankini, denim microshorts, and plumdale Uggs, begs the question: which rehab did she tumble out of?_  
  
As her eyes traveled over the page of the Style section, Miranda remembered how all of the paparazzi were always calling out questions, asking for interviews. She hadn't allowed an interview in more than a decade. If she were to offer The Times an interview...”Emily,” she said not turning around.  
  
In a moment Emily was in the doorway, “Yes Miranda?” she asked.  
  
Miranda continued to look out the window. “Tomorrow morning,” she said quietly, “first thing, I want you to get a hold of the Style editor at The Times and tell them that I will make time to give their new fashion columnist an interview...”  
  
***  
  
Andy poured the last of a second bottle of wine into her glass as she sat and stared at the flowers. Lily had called a taxi and left half an hour ago, telling Andy that she'd promised to call Karen before bed. Andy smiled for her friend. Normally, Lily's romantic life was chaotic. Brief, passionate flings that never went anywhere. The way Lily had spoken about the woman, Karen seemed to be becoming something more than that. Andy closed her eyes and deeply inhaled the scent of the flowers. Of the two women she'd met recently that she was truly attracted to, one was a co-worker exploring a relationship with her best friend and the other was Miranda freaking Priestly. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.  
  
She sighed again as she rinsed the wine glasses and disposed of the two wine bottles into her recycle bin. She already knew that her white-haired fantasy would be visiting her in her dreams again tonight. It was really twisted to be so involved with a woman she'd barely even met. Of course her fantasies predated her ever meeting the icon. Turning the lights off in the living room of her apartment, Andy headed for bed and the dreams lying in wait there.  
  
Friday October 2nd, 2009  
  
The subway proved to be more than its usual nightmare during rush-hour, and ended up with Andy arriving a few minutes later than usual to work.  
  
The junior editor, Barbara Campbell, who had picked up Karen's duties while the Style editor was on “vacation” seemed to be lying in wait for her arrival. Andy hadn't put her coat down before Barbara called “Andy, could you step in here please?” from the doorway of Karen's office.  
  
Andy quickly divested herself of her coat and strode from her desk into the editor's office. “Yes, Barbara?” she asked.  
  
Barbara looked up from her desk and eyed the newest addition to her department speculatively. “What I want to know is how you did it?” she asked.  
  
“Excuse me?” Andy questioned, confused.  
  
Barbara shook her head and smiled ruefully. “Miranda Priestly hasn't given an interview in like, forever. Now I get a call from her assistant over at Runway. She told me that Miranda would make time to allow you an interview before she leaves for Paris for fashion week. So my question is how did you land the most in-demand interview in the city for The Times?”  
  
Andy immediately knew that there was a time for truth and honesty and there was a time to build one's legend. Thinking quickly Andy chose the latter. “I'm just that good?” she asked sheepishly.   
  
Barbara eyed her co-worker. “This is big Andy. Big enough that the next thing I'm gonna do is call our editor-in-chief’s assistant and tell her to tell him that The Times has landed the hottest interview we've had happen in the last five years! You pull this off and you're gonna be golden with management. This is gonna sell a whole lot of papers!”  
  
“Wonderful,” Andy said, feeling trepidation rise in her chest. She was to face her fantasy. “When and where?” she asked.  
  
“Her assistant is making arrangements. They'll call you later today. Clear your schedule, and when she says Miranda can see you, be there.”  
  
Andy nodded. “Will do,” she answered.  
  
***  
  
Nigel walked into Miranda's outer office and found Heather busily on the phone making dinner reservations for two. He smiled to himself wondering when Miranda had found time to contact the object of her romantic interest and invite her. He imagined that it must have been when the woman called to thank Miranda for the flowers. It was then that he saw Emily sitting at her desk, hyperventilating. He stopped in front of the redhead. “What's going on?” he asked.  
  
“Nigel, I don't know if I can take this.” Emily wheezed, trying to catch her breath. “I can't figure out what's going on! First she's getting her own coffee, then she’s humming tunes to herself and getting the flowers, and now she's going to do an interview. Nigel,” she whispered, “she never gives interviews.”  
  
“An interview?” Nigel said, surprised. “Let me play psychic,” he smiled, pressing his fingertips to his temples, closing his eyes, and camping it up. “It wouldn't be by chance to the new fashion columnist at The Times would it?”  
  
Emily nodded, seemingly speechless.  
  
Nigel glanced at Heather as she hung up the phone. “The interview is to be at Le Bernardin?”  
  
Heather nodded, glancing nervously at Miranda's office. “How did you know?” she almost whispered.  
  
“Like I said, I'm psychic,” Nigel chuckled. “That and I've worked with her for twenty years.”  
  
Turning he sighed softly as he started towards Miranda's office. Miranda was being Miranda. She had arranged to have an interview with the woman in the most romantic five-star French restaurant in the city. The one she had favored when she was courting her three husbands and when she had engaged in the occasional romantic fling. It was likely that in Miranda's mind this was going to be a date. It was time for Nigel to step in and speak to her as a friend before she moved too fast and frightened her intended off.  
  
***  
  
A newspaper's purpose is to pass information. This means that news tidbits inside the walls of the newspaper's offices are transmitted at the speed of gossip, which occurred seemingly close to if not exceeding the speed of light.  
  
Danielle Gold overheard two of the other copy-writing/fact checking peons talking about Andy Sachs' good fortune almost as soon as it had occurred. She immediately saw the danger to her position. If Sachs really had landed an interview with the most sought after subject in the city, there was no way that Roger would fire the upstart. Not fire her or demote her back to copy-writing/fact-checking. If Danielle didn't do something quickly to derail Andy Sachs' interview with Miranda Priestly, her chances of ever again being the only fashion writer for The Times were non-existent. Her devious mind turned away from the fact checking assignment she had been given and toward finding a way to secure her future at the paper and ending Andy Sachs'.

***

The doorbell at Karen Wilson's apartment rang at something after ten in the morning. Being ”on vacation” as she was, she'd drank wine and talked to Lily late into the night on the telephone and slept in this morning. Slipping on her bathrobe, she moved to the door and opened it finding Lily standing there with a single red rose and a sack from a takeout fast food place.  
  
"Got a vase and a couple of plates?” the woman asked. “It's only breakfast sandwiches and coffee, but I figured we could have breakfast together...You're on vacation, after all.”

  
Karen smiled, stepping back from the door and motioning Lily inside. “What about you? Don't you have to be at work today?”

  
Lily laughed. ”Well, you see, I did my boss this favor by getting the place I work at a newspaper article. So when I told him I had a friend that was feeling down and I needed a personal day to go see them, he was happy to give me the time off.”

  
Karen looked down at the ground bashfully. “You didn't have to do that, Lily,” she said softly.

  
Lily playfully held out the red rose tickling the other woman's nose with the petals of the crimson blossom. “I wanted to,” she answered. “The way you're feeling has become important to me.”

  
Karen's eyes, scared but hopeful, came up to look into brown eyes full of compassion and maybe something else. “I'll get us some plates,” Karen said, daring to begin believing that her therapist might be right and someone out there might treat her better than Danielle had.

***

Sir Nigel had cornered the dragon in her lair. The difficulty was that he was all too aware that when a knight-errant had a dragon cornered, it was then said dragon was most unpredictable. Nigel would bet good money most of the noble knights that found themselves in this position ended up as roasted meat in the tin can of their armor instead of the winner of the lauded title of dragon-slayer. Miranda was magnificent as she paced like a caged animal. Something graceful and lithe and coiled and deadly he mused as images of leopards and cheetahs flashed in his mind. She was a hard read on the best of days, but today his years of working at her side paid off, and his gut impression was that she was scared. He knew Miranda and knew that she'd hate being scared worse than anything else. He smiled at her softly. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked, using their code to offer his opinion as a friend rather than as an employee. “You look like you could use a few minutes out of the trenches.”

***

Miranda couldn't believe that she was sitting in the back of a Starbucks waiting for Nigel who was in line to order their drinks. Here, sitting anonymously among the plebeian mob, she would face her fear. Nigel had reached out as a friend, and at this moment Miranda felt desperately in need of that friend. She desired to meet and impress “her”' columnist, but she also wanted to introduce herself to Andrea during the interview not as Miranda the icon but as Miranda the woman. She had decided that she would answer any question posed with blunt honesty. She would allow Andrea to see her, warts and all. If she did that, perhaps, just perhaps, they might have a chance of building a foundation for a future together.

Nigel placed Miranda's latte before her and sat down on the far side of the table. “So,” he said, “ Le Bernardin?”

Miranda gripped her cup. One of her assistants had been talking out of school. She'd have to see about a proper punishment. She glanced at her companion. “Yes,” she answered. “The finest French food in the city.”

Nigel smiled a knowing smile. “It also has a certain ... ambiance,” he replied.

Miranda pursed her lips. “If you have something to say, Nigel, spit it out.”

Nigel shrugged. “I think you want to be careful to not move too quickly. You don't want to scare her off. I mean you have had, what, one phone conversation?”

Miranda, looking down at her coffee and again cursing herself as a coward, said nothing.

“Miranda,” Nigel said, “You have spoken to her privately, haven't you?”

Nigel's eyes widened, and Miranda could read unease in his body language. Unused to explaining herself, she pursed her lips in exasperation. _But_ , the voice in her head said, _you are here with him as your friend, not as your employee. And you need help so you don't ruin this as you've ruined your marriages.”_ Arguing with herself silently she opted for a middle road. A partial truth while not revealing the amount of fear she felt about the coming meeting with a woman she desperately wanted to both impress and win. “It was inconvenient to speak with her,” she said haughtily.

“E-mail communication then,” Nigel temporized. “When I met with her she seemed a well-bred young woman. I'm sure she sent you a thank you for the flowers you sent.”

Miranda again pursed her lips. Her wanting to protect herself by not discussing her feelings warred with her desire to ask Nigel how not to mess up the opportunity she was so hopeful to have. She bit down on the inside of her mouth and thought, _They say the truth will set you free_. She looked at her companion. “The florist neglected to send a card with the flowers. I doubt that Andrea knows I sent them.”

Nigel slumped in his chair and looked at his friend of twenty years. He nodded and came to a decision. It was time to do some preventive meddling before Miranda turned this into a situation where major damage control was necessary tomorrow morning. The dragon was cornered, and it was time for Sir Nigel to face the fact that in the next few minutes he was likely to become roasted pork in a can. “Miranda,” he said, “as your friend, I'm going to stick my neck out and my nose in for the next few minutes. After that I won't say another word unless you ask me to. You're about to give an interview to a woman that you chased off the red carpet at the MoMA event a few weeks ago. You've chosen a restaurant that you took all three of your ex-husbands to when you were courting them, not to mention several of your romantic flings. Do you see the potential for a severe misunderstanding in this situation?”

Miranda nodded cautiously.

“You need to keep firmly in mind that from her perspective this will be a working dinner, not a date,” Nigel started.

Miranda smiled a vulpine smile and her blue eyes twinkled. “Nigel,” she purred, “I've just had the most marvelous idea...”

Nigel knew without doubt he was canned ham.

***

The telephone on Andy's desk rang at 2:23 in the afternoon. Focusing on the list of questions she had spent the day developing for her interview with the reigning queen of the fashion world, she picked up the receiver and said “Sachs.”

Without preamble a snooty English-accented voice said, “Emily Charlton, first assistant to Miranda Priestly calling. Be at Le Bernardin at 7:30 sharp tonight. The reservation is, of course, in Miranda's name. For God's sake, don't be late.”

Andy's heart sped up. _Seven-thirty tonight?_ she thought, alarmed. That was in only four hours. In four hours she would be interviewing a fashion legend. Her questions weren't ready, and she had nothing suitable to wear. Panic began to set in. Controlling her breathing she quickly prioritized. Go buy something to wear, then hair and makeup. Squeeze the paring down of her list of questions into the space between the other priorities.

***

Cynthia Parnell stood at the front door of a well maintained town-house in the West Village. It was technically a violation of ethics to do what she was contemplating, but she was in need of the truth. Sometimes a lawyer had to bend the rules to get it. There was also the probability that the woman she wanted to talk to wouldn't speak with her. She didn't know if Karen Wilson had obtained legal counsel yet, and Karen might know that talking to the opposition’s lawyer without her own lawyer present was a fool's game. She steeled herself for what was likely to be an ugly scene, and, taking a deep breath, rang the door bell. She heard rich laughter approaching the door, and as it opened the attractive black woman who answered, still laughing, called out, “You cheat,” over her shoulder.

“I'm a newspaper editor, you're an artist. You should have known better than to take me on at _Scrabble,”_ came a disembodied woman's voice from somewhere deeper in the house.

The woman in the doorway turned and smiled at Cynthia. “Can I help you?” she asked jovially.

“Yes, please,” the lawyer said nervously. “I'm Cynthia Parnell. I represent Danielle Gold in the lawsuit that's been filed. That is, at least at this moment I represent her. Are you Karen Wilson?”

Lily shook her head. “I'm Lily, a friend of Karen's.” She looked over her shoulder. “Karen,” she called, “someone’s here to see you.” A moment later an attractive woman of about forty came to the door.

“Cynthia Parnell, Danielle's lawyer,” Lily informed Karen softly.

Karen looked at Cynthia and stiffly asked, “What can I do for you?”

Cynthia watched as the young black woman, Lily she'd called herself, placed a hand supportively on the small of Karen's back. Cynthia wished desperately that someone would offer her such comfort. It was the little actions like that which were missing from her and Danielle's relationship. The small, fond touches and the pecks on the cheek. Kisses were always initiated by Danielle. If Cynthia tried to initiate one, she was rebuffed. And a kiss from Danielle was never just a kiss, it was always a prelude to sex. She glanced at Karen. “I'm not here in any professional capacity,' she said softly, throwing ethics out the window. “I think I may have made a terrible mistake,” she continued, giving voice to her feelings. “I need...if you are willing, I think I need to hear your side...I think I need to hear the truth about your relationship with Danielle,” she continued in a small, quiet voice.

Lily continued to run her hand gently up and down Karen's back, and the editor stood silently for a long moment before sighing.. “I'm not nearly drunk enough,” she said, turning and motioning the visitor to follow her into her home, “to be telling one of the women my ex was cheating on me with about my relationship with her.”

Lily smiled a soft, sad smile. “I can fix that.” she said. “You take Cynthia into the living room, and I'll go make another big pitcher of Margaritas,” she said moving off towards the kitchen.

Karen led Cynthia into a comfortable room where a half-played game of _Scrabble_ sat on the coffee table _. “_ Now,” Karen said, motioning Cynthia to take a seat. “I met Danielle at a journalistic function where I was receiving an award. I've never been very good with personal relationships. Never had a romantic relationship that lasted any amount of time. I was very lonely, and I wasn't use to someone like her, a beautiful, sensual woman, coming on to me. She convinced me to take her home with me that night. A week later she convinced me to recommend her for the fashion columnist position that was open at _The Times.”_

A single tear ran down Cynthia's cheek, and her brave facade evaporated.

Having entered the room while Karen spoke, Lily put down the tray laden with three large margaritas and a pitcher filled with the green liquid. Catching the stricken look on the woman's face, she quickly took one of the margaritas to Cynthia. “Looks like you've heard this story before,” she said quietly with sad eyes as she offered the drink. “You look like you could use this.”

Cynthia took the drink and downed about half the large glass. A second tear followed the first down her face. “I'm so sorry, Ms. Wilson,” she said, now beginning to cry openly, “I've been such a Goddamned fool.”

_***_

Miranda sighed as she glared at the inside of her massive closet in her bedroom at the townhouse. She had left work early to get ready, and now she'd wasted an hour. Nothing here was suitable. “All these clothes and nothing to wear,” she grated.

After Nigel had been so “kind” as to “help” her with her perspective about her “not date” this evening, she had first bullied him into being available to her by cell phone during the time she'd be with Andrea. Then she'd taken it to the next level and bullied him into being available to her in the bar at Le Bernardin in case she needed advice during her “not date.” Nigel had, somewhat reluctantly, agreed.

After their kaffeeklatsch this morning, Miranda had returned to the office and spent two wonderful hours editing Andrea's interview with Orla Frostrop. She was more certain than ever that Andrea would before very long be one of the world's premiere fashion journalists. The woman could see fashion and perceive the art in it. Then she could, with humor and affection, spin words onto the printed page that let others see as she saw. She had taken the twelve pages of interview she had written about Orla and edited it down into five pages that would go into the magazine. Miranda was certain that those reading the interview would be left feeling that they had known Orla Frostrop their whole lives and at the same time wanted to know more. It was a dynamite way to introduce this new talent to the world.

Now she was to sit across from this talented word-weaver and bare her soul. She again glared into her closet, but the room was feeling contrary today and didn't suddenly reveal a perfect dress to wear on this most important of nights. Feeling stressed she grabbed her cell phone and speed-dialed her office. As soon as the phone was answered she said, “There is a Frostrop dress in the Closet in my size. I believe it is the one designated as number nine during the show. Bring it to the townhouse immediately.”

***

It had taken calling in some favors from a few peons at _The Times_ who believed that she would in the end come out top and didn't want to chance being on her bad side, but Danielle had found out the details of Andy's meeting with Miranda. Time, location, everything she needed to torpedo it. And to make the act even more satisfying, she'd figured out a way to kill two birds with one stone. After she left work she went to Pennsylvania Station and used a payphone so the call could never be traced back to her. She called _Runway_ and got transferred to Miranda Priestly's office. Talking to an assistant she identified herself as Karen Wilson, style editor of _The Times_. She told the woman on the other end of the line that _The Times_ had no interest in an interview with Miranda Priestly. _The Times_ was interested in writing about the future, not the past. With a suggestive lilt in her voice, she added that her employee, Andy Sachs, would be spending the evening enjoyably “interviewing” her rather than that fashion fraud called the Ice Queen.

A little after five P.M. Danielle smiled as the payphone dropped the fifty cents the local call had cost her. Now she'd catch a commuter train to her lawyer-plaything's condo and spend the evening wrapping the woman back around her little finger. Doing so would insure that the silly cow would go ahead and press the lawsuit. _After all,_ Danielle thought, _there's no need to spend money on a lawyer unless one really has to..._

_***_

On the ride from _Runway_ to the townhouse Heather's cellphone rang. Answering it she was accosted by Emily's agitated voice. “Heather,” Emily breathed, “Andy Sachs' editor just called. Sachs isn't going to do the interview. She's going to be spending the evening with her editor instead. From what her editor implied, it isn't just a ’working’ meeting either.”

Heather blanched. This was just like Emily; leave it to her to put Heather in a position where she had to be the one to deliver bad news to Miranda. Emily had survived at _Runway_ as long as she had by being smart enough to recognize Miranda's habit of taking her immediate anger out on the messenger. Heather was nobody's fool. Since the revelation that Andy Sachs' articles seemed to make Miranda happy, Heather had watched the white-haired icon closely. The flowers, the Orla Frostrop article, the interview, and the huge closet full of clothes at the townhouse that contained nothing to wear when it came time to meet the journalist face to face—Miranda held more than a passing interest in this columnist. Her interest wasn't just professional, and that made it far more dangerous. Emily had just handed Heather a truly explosive situation that she now had to figure out a way to deal with in the few minutes it would take the car to reach Miranda's home. “So sweet of you to let me know, Emily,” she answered, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Would you be a dear and have a blindfold and a cigarette sent over? I seem to be out at the moment. That lovely Dior scarf you're wearing today would work nicely.”

“Well, she'll want to know as soon as possible, and since you're there...” the English woman answered.

At that moment the car arrived in front of Miranda's townhouse. “I'm here, I have to go,” Heather said, closing her cell phone.

She gathered the garment bag containing the Frostrop gown and took the longest walk of her life to the front door. Using her key to let herself in, she found Miranda waiting for her in the foyer.

Without preamble the Dragon Lady said, “Show me the dress.”

Heather unzipped the garment back and displayed the beautiful ethereal gown. “Miranda,” she said, “ _The Times_ called. The interview has been canceled.” Getting it out quickly was best. Miranda would flay her, and at least it would be over.

Miranda stopped, and her eyes came up from the dress. “Canceled?” she said. “Nonsense. The only one who would dare cancel this interview is me.”

Heather held her breath. “The style editor, a woman named Karen Wilson, called Emily. She said that _The Times_ isn't interested in you.”

Miranda's eyes narrowed dangerously. “What else did she say?” she demanded in her quiet office voice. The one, Heather noted, she used just before _really_ bad things happened to people who had pissed her off.

Heather swallowed hard. “Emily told me that Ms. Wilson said _The Times_ was interested in the future, not the past. Emily also suggested that Ms. Wilson implied she and Andy would be together this evening in a...personal...capacity.” Heather watched Miranda stiffen, the woman's blue eyes turn to burning ice, but the expected ax didn't fall.

“Take the dress back to the Closet. That's all,” Miranda said, so quietly that Heather barely heard it. Then Miranda turned and angrily stalked deeper into her home, disappearing from sight.

Heather was grateful that she had survived the encounter with her job intact. As she left the townhouse she was also grateful that she was not either Karen Wilson or Andy Sachs, for she had a hunch that both of their lives were very likely to become extremely difficult in the next few days. One did not do this sort of thing to the Dragon Lady and remain unscathed. And Heather knew for a fact that with both women working in the publishing industry, Miranda had the reach to do all sorts of nasty things.

As she settled into the back of the town car, Heather decided it was time to do something “nice” for Emily. Perhaps she'd send the woman a box of expensive chocolate truffles from an anonymous admirer. Emily's vanity would demand that she display the box of treats on her desk for all the other clackers to coo over as they envied her good fortune. Heather knew, however, Emily’s not knowing who sent them and the fact that she wouldn't even taste one of the decadent candies would torture the Brit for days. Heather smiled as she soaked in the quiet of the back seat. _Yes, a box of truffles from that gourmet candy shop on Fifth Avenue,_ she thought, _will do the trick_.


	7. Chapter 7

Friday October 2nd, 2009 (Continued)

Nigel glanced nervously at his wristwatch. 7:45 PM. He was at the bar at Le Bernardin. Miranda's quarry was in place at the table Miranda had reserved, wearing a fetching little black dress in stretch lace from Nichole Miller's collection. He must admit that from his three encounters with the journalist he was impressed with her taste in fashion and ability to carry off a look on what was apparently a limited budget. The only thing that was missing was Miranda, and she wasn't picking up her phone. After watching her at their kaffeeklatsch this afternoon, Nigel recognized that Miranda was frightened by the feelings she was experiencing. What he knew of her disastrous romantic entanglements and marriages more than validated Miranda's concerns. What Nigel also recognized was that when she was frightened, she faced whatever scared her head on with a “damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead” attitude. The only reason he could conceive why Miranda was not here to meet the object of her affection and was not answering her phone must be an emergency of some kind. That boiled down to either Miranda's twin daughters or _Runway_. Either way Miranda's assistant would be in the loop. Nigel hurriedly hit the speed dial on his phone, calling the office.  
  
“Miranda Priestly's office,” came Heather's voice through the receiver.  
  
“Heather, it's Nigel. Where is she?” he asked emphatically, covertly watching the young woman at Miranda's table, who sat looking around nervously.   
  
“She's at home, Nigel. She's not taking any calls,” Heather said quietly.   
  
Nigel swallowed. He couldn't process what might have led to this state of affairs. “What's happened?” he demanded. “Did something happen to one of her daughters?”  
  
“No,” Heather answered. “As far as I can tell she was upset about _The Times_ canceling her interview.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Nigel exclaimed. “I'm at the restaurant, and the woman she's supposed to meet is here waiting for her!”  
  
“But _The Times_ called and canceled. I delivered the message to Miranda myself when I was there delivering a dress earlier this evening. Emily got the call from the Style editor.”  
  
Nigel took a deep breath and made a dangerous decision. “Heather, you're going to do exactly as I say. If anything ill comes of it, I'll take full responsibility. I want you to get one of the company cars and go to Miranda's. Bang on the door until she opens it, and tell her that Ms. Sachs is sitting at Le Bernardin waiting for her. I'll keep her here as long as I can.”  
  
“But what about the Book?” Heather asked.  
  
“Heather, if tonight passes and Miranda doesn't know that Andy Sachs was sitting here waiting for her, the Book will be the least of your worries,” Nigel said urgently. “If she's not answering her phone somebody has to go get her. I have to stay here to keep Ms. Sachs from leaving, so going to Miranda falls to you. Now for God's sake, for all our sakes, hurry!”  
  
Heather understood immediately. Something had happened—some misunderstanding, and now it was up to her to put things right. She called downstairs for a car and driver. On the way down she made a quick stop by the Closet.  
  
***  
  
Danielle Gold stood outside her lawyer/plaything's condominium. Her devotee had not answered the door, and with darkness falling, no lights had come on inside. All Danielle could imagine was that her plaything had stayed late at the office. Aggravated with the delay, she decided to wait a while at a local Starbucks. Now she'd have to find a way to punish her plaything for making her wait while still reinforcing her hold on the woman. Danielle smiled grimly with anticipation.  
  
***  
  
Laughter and a sense of camaraderie permeated the air in Karen's living room. Earlier in the day, after the three women had drunk a number of margaritas, each had spoken openly and honestly, exposing painful things about themselves. Afterward a strong sense of sisterhood formed among the group. A three-way Scrabble marathon had fed into an impromptu dinner and movie night. Sitting together while working on the latest pitcher of margaritas, Lily said, “You know, somebody ought to teach that Danielle a lesson...” And so, the plot of the three sisters was born.  
  
***  
  
Heather stood on Miranda's dark doorstep and, taking a deep breath, pounded on the door for the second time. _Suicidal,_ she thought. _This is suicidal. Emily has it in for me and has secretly hired Nigel to have me killed. This is the way he's going to murder me without ever getting his own hands dirty. It's really a perfect crime..._  
  
The porch lights came on, and the door swept open. An obviously angry Miranda stood before her. Heather's eyes took it all in, plain gray bathrobe, no make-up, angry narrowed ice-blue eyes, and something else in those eyes, too. A deeply buried sadness. In that terrifying, endless moment Miranda Priestly's second assistant came face to face with the woman Miranda. Heather suddenly intuitively understood what was happening and the stakes involved. Seeing the icon vulnerable, any sense of self-preservation flew right out the window. She thrust the garment bag containing the Frostrop gown into Miranda's surprised arms. “She's waiting for you at the restaurant.” Heather said. “Nigel will keep her there as long as he can. Get changed, and I'll help you with your make-up and hair.”  
  
***  
  
Andy sat nervously at a table in one of the most posh restaurants in Manhattan waiting for the arrival of one of the most powerful women in the nation, if not the world. Decisions made by Miranda Priestly on a daily basis drove a multi-billion dollar a year industry. A chance to interview this legend of fashion was an opportunity that a million columnists would kill for. The interview wasn't so much of a problem in Andy's mind. The often recurring heated fantasies the young columnist's experienced about the woman were another matter. At least Andy was more or less sure that in this public venue she could keep a lid on her imagination and could keep herself from undressing Miranda with her eyes. Well, she hoped.   
  
***   
  
Nigel walked from the bar into the restaurant, presenting himself at the table where Andy sat. Enough time had passed that in her nervousness Andy had succumbed to temptation and ordered a cocktail. She sat lost in thought, contemplating the surface of her drink when Nigel startled her by saying, “Good evening, Andy.”  
  
Andy flinched and looked up guiltily from her drink. “Mr. Kipling,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here? I thought I was to meet with Ms. Priestly for an interview.”  
  
Nigel chuckled, “You are. I happen to like the bar here for an after-work drink. Miranda suspected I might be here. When she was delayed, she called me to ask I let you know that, if you can wait, she will be here.”   
  
Andy looked up at him, “Of course I'll wait; she's Miranda Priestly.”  
  
Nigel smiled at the young woman before him. “Yes,” he replied sardonically. “Yes she is.”   
  
***  
  
Heather had endured thirty minutes of absolute terror. With the solemnity of a samurai warrior being garbed for battle, Miranda stood still as Heather played her dresser. Miranda hadn't said a word beyond what was absolutely necessary in order to dress and get her make-up and hair right, a state of affairs that had Heather on razor's edge.   
  
The angry and then withdrawn woman in a plain gray bathrobe that Heather had encountered at the front door was transformed into the fabulous icon of style and fashion ready for a night before the camera's of the paparazzi.  
  
Miranda examined herself in the full-length mirror of the dressing room, and the corners of her mouth quirked upward. “Heather,” she almost whispered. “Schedule a meeting between you and me. Janice in the Beauty department is going to be leaving _Runway_ in approximately six month’s time, and I will need a competent replacement as the manager of that department—someone who understands both the application of cosmetics on the models and the administrative necessities of running a department in a major magazine. You have demonstrated both qualifications. It is time we discuss your future with _Runway_. Make sure Roy is ready and waiting downstairs. That's all.” With that she grabbed her clutch and swept from the room, leaving a stunned second assistant standing opened-mouthed in surprise.  
  
***  
  
Alone with her thoughts in the back of the town car, Miranda had to face herself. The idea that the reporter, a woman she barely even knew, had canceled an interview and was spending the night with another woman had devastated her far beyond what it should have. Miranda had to face how emotionally vulnerable she had become because she had felt abandoned by “her” columnist when the interview had been canceled. An entirely unsatisfactory state of affairs. There were two options now lying before her. The first, to reassert her professional façade and shake off the unfamiliar feelings. To again cloak herself with her ice queen persona and protect her heart at all costs. To continue on as she had been, lonely and sick to death of being so. Or she could take a risk and continue as she had planned. She could open up to this woman who she felt to be the other part of her soul and reveal Miranda the woman rather than La Priestly the icon. The drive to the restaurant was unmercifully short this time of evening, and Miranda had not resolved her dilemma by the time her driver, Roy, announced their arrival. Her first thought was to have him drive around the block to give herself more time, but she'd already kept Andrea Sachs waiting long enough.  
  
Miranda exited the car and strode into Le Bernardin as if she owned the place. The maitre d’ practically fell over himself while obsequiously telling her that her party was waiting at the table she'd reserved and that the chef had prepared a special tasting menu in honor of her presence once again in their establishment. The little man's fawning, usually one of the perks of having become the feared and fabled Dragon Lady, simply irritated her tonight. As she brushed by him and moved toward her table, she had her first look at “her” columnist, beautiful in a classic little black dress. Black was a color that suited the young woman's creamy skin and her expressive brown eyes, Miranda noted. First the Ellie Saab and now Nichole Miller, the woman wore clothing well. She glanced at Nigel where he sat keeping the stunning reporter occupied. Miranda noted two half-finished cocktails on the table, and suddenly she had an irrational stab of jealousy flash through her as beautiful, feminine laughter floated from the table. It should be her making Andrea Sachs laugh so.  
  
Miranda noticed that the young woman sat up and took notice of her entry into the room. The smile that lit up the reporter's face made every moment of uncertainty and discomfort that Miranda had struggled with worth the acknowledgment of feelings she had long held in check. She had felt alone her entire life. As if a part of herself was missing. She had tried to fill the void first with her career and then with her ill-conceived attempts at marriage. If she had not loved her first husband she had at least been fond of him. And from him she had the one thing that filled part of that void in her soul. She had her beautiful twin daughters. The less she considered the reasons behind her other two marriages the better. Now she felt herself on the edge of something frightening and important. She felt as if this beautiful young woman knew her soul and could, perhaps, be the one to fill the rest of that void. She adjusted her stride. It wouldn't do to appear in a hurry to reach the table. She was Miranda Priestly after all, and appearances must be maintained.  
  
Gliding to an elegant stop beside the table, Miranda, maintaining her iconic pose, pursed her lips and dismissed Nigel with a cursory, “That's all.”  
  
Nigel smiled across the table at Andy as he rose. He took a moment to pull out Miranda's chair and see her seated before he picked up his drink and retreated through the archway that led back to the restaurant’s bar.   
  
Miranda then looked across the table at the now nervous young woman seated across from her. This was not what Miranda wanted, but she didn't know how to let go of the ice queen image she had created as a means of protecting the woman inside.  
  
She watched Andy anxiously lick her lips and was entranced by the tip of the young columnist's pink tongue moistening the tender flesh. Miranda felt something tighten deep in her body and arousal, a long unfamiliar sensation, coursed through her. She closed her eyes and sighed softly. Opening them she looked across the table into expressive brown eyes now focused on her, and Miranda came to a decision. “I apologize for being tardy. There seems to have been some kind of mix-up. There is something I would like to know before we start this interview,” she said.  
  
She watched the young woman nod her compliance with the request and heard her musical voice say, “Of course, Ms...Miranda. May I call you Miranda? I've come to understand it is how you prefer to be addressed.”  
  
Miranda nodded. “If I may call you Andrea,” she breathed, placing a distinctive accent on the second syllable of the woman's name. She watched her companion shiver and wondered for a moment if she'd misstepped. Now her mind quickly turned to finding an inconspicuous way to excuse herself so she could seek Nigel's counsel.  
  
A smile lit Andrea's face, and for Miranda it was as if the sun had suddenly risen. “Yes, please,” the young woman responded. “Most people just call me Andy, but my given name sounds beautiful the way you pronounce it.”  
  
Miranda felt the edges of her lips quirk upward in a small smile. One point for her, and no need to seek Nigel's aid yet. Then Miranda stiffened her demeanor and again became the ice queen. Miranda braced herself, knowing the next few minutes would reveal whether she might have a future with the beautiful journalist. In the past, Miranda had allowed herself to feel hope when recognizing a potential romantic partner, but she had ultimately found herself hurt and alone. She needed to determine whether she had created a romance that Andrea wanted no part of. “I was informed by my staff that your editor had called and canceled our interview,” the icon stated flatly. “If Nigel hadn't seen you here waiting, I would not have come at all,” she announced to her companion.  
  
Andy looked perplexed as she asked, “Barbara called you?”  
  
Miranda shook her head and glanced at the table. “A woman named Wilson, I believe. A Karen Wilson called my staff to inform me that you would not be coming tonight.”  
  
The woman across from her shook her head. “That doesn't make any sense, Miranda. Karen is my editor but she's on...vacation. I don't believe that she was even aware that this interview was scheduled.”  
  
The way the young columnist had paused and then the nuanced way she's said “vacation” told Miranda that there was something more to the story that would need to be divined. “It was also implied,” Miranda continued, “that you would be spending this evening with this Ms. Wilson in a...personal capacity.”  
  
Miranda saw Andrea's confused look across the table, and then the young woman shook her head again. “No, no personal...capacity...between us,” she said, apparently realizing what the words implied. “I wouldn't do that to my best friend, who's in the early stages of a relationship with Karen...ahhh...with Ms. Wilson.”  
  
Miranda felt the corners of her mouth quirk up again. “So, are you involved with anyone?” she surprised herself by asking. It had been a long time since she had asked a question without considering it and the possible consequences.   
  
Andrea looked at the table cloth, and Miranda could swear that, even in the dim lighting, she could see a blush rising on the young woman's neck and shoulders. “No, no relationships, haven't been any since my junior year at college,” the young woman answered somewhat awkwardly and, Miranda had the impression, with a touch of sadness. This answer sealed Miranda's decision of what to do next. She signaled a waiter and ordered another drink for Andy and a double of the finest single malt scotch in the house for herself. She smiled openly for the first time at Andrea. “I intend to answer any question you put to me, Andrea, both openly and honestly. No subject is off-limits. You may begin your questioning when you are ready.”  
  
***  
  
Andy swallowed nervously. In preparation for this meeting she had read and watched those few previous interviews that the icon had allowed while she was climbing the ladder in the fashion industry. Wherever possible Andy had also investigated the restrictions that Miranda had imposed on those interviews. Each had been very limited in scope, and the stipulations limiting what subjects the interviewer could or could not address were carefully spelled out. There was one famous incident where Miranda had walked off a live national television show because the host hadn't lived up to the agreement of what questions were off-limits. It left the show with forty minutes of empty air time and nothing to fill it with. The next day the host, at the time a popular daytime television celebrity, had been very publicly fired. No one knew if the network, the sponsors, or Miranda Priestly herself had arranged his dismissal. Now here was the legend offering Andy, an untested junior columnist, unrestricted access to both her professional and personal life. She shook herself. Chances like this came along once in a lifetime. This was the time to prove she was a consummate professional.   
  
She looked in her bag and discovered to her horror that her list of questions was nowhere to be found. She remembered working on it when she was having her hair done…she had set them down beside her chair as one of the stylists, bored with nothing to do, had offered her a discounted manicure! With that realization, she began to search through her bag more frantically.   
  
With a sinking feeling Andy realized she had left the questions sitting on the arm of the salon chair where she'd had her hair done. Panic began to set in as she realized she was keeping _The_ Miranda Priestly waiting. Looking across the table, she noticed Miranda looking at her with her lips slightly pursed and a look she couldn't read in Miranda's eyes. The Devil in Heels knew! Knew Andy was unprepared, and like those journalists before her she was going to crash and burn on the impenetrable wall of a Miranda Priestly interview. She marshaled herself. She was a professional, damn it, and this was her big chance. She was determined to press on. “So, why don't we start with what you consider your greatest achievement,” she began.  
  
***  
  
Miranda thought for a moment. She couldn't have scripted a better lead in to show “her” columnist the human being behind the icon. All she had to do was break the cardinal rule she had held sacred for nearly twelve years. All she had to do was tell the truth. She nodded as she made her decision. “My two daughters,” she answered quietly. “They are the high-point of my life.”  
  
Miranda found herself amused by the slightly dazed look on her companion's face, and somehow that amusement made it easier to spend the next fifteen minutes talking candidly about a subject that she had crucified other reporters for even bringing up. She spoke at some length about both her hopes and fears in regard to her relationship with her two beloved daughters. When she felt that she had done the subject adequate justice, she paused and reached for her glass, taking a long sip of her scotch. She then looked at the woman across from her. “Now, Andrea,” she said softly, “tell me something about yourself.”  
  
***  
  
Andrea, partially dazed by the fact that she had been given information that to her certain knowledge no other journalist had ever gotten from the lips of the Ice Queen, was struggling to make sure she took proper notes on what was being said while simultaneously coming up with more suitable questions to ask. When Miranda offered the opportunity to allow Andy to buy herself some time, she jumped at it. After all, she could easily talk a little about herself while her mind completed the necessary tasks at hand. “Okay,” she said. “What would you like to know?”  
  
Miranda smiled a genuine smile, and her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “Tell me how you came to your vision of fashion.”  
  
Andy sat back nervously. “Miranda, you are the fashion genius of this generation. The voice of what is and what will be, and you want to know how I came to my concept of fashion?” she asked, almost disbelievingly.  
  
Miranda nodded. “Yes,” she admitted in a low voice. “More than almost anything.”  
  
***   
  
From inside the archway to the barroom Nigel surreptitiously watched the two women's interaction off and on over the course of several hours until the bartender announced last call. It was then that Nigel realized that while he remained one of the few stragglers in the bar, the dining room was empty save for Miranda and Andy. And there they sat still talking. Nigel was surprised by the amount of talking Andy had done. Usually during an interview the interviewer asked questions and shut up, listening to the answers. During this interview it appeared to Nigel that Andy had done nearly as much talking as Miranda had. As if they were two people exchanging pleasantries on a first date. Nigel smiled wickedly and ordered one last martini, deciding he'd stay to watch the fireworks when the restaurant staff attempted to evict Miranda from her table.  
  
***   
  
Andy looked around the room and realized that the staff was cleaning up. She was loath to mention it to Miranda. The entire interview process had been a complete surprise and not at all what the young columnist had expected. Her research preparing for this interview had indicated that the fashion maven’s relationship with the press was... well.. adversarial would be the polite way to phrase it. Yet the young columnist had been encouraged by the Ice Queen's cooperation to pursue lines of questioning she knew no other journalist would dare try to ask the icon. That, coupled with having forgotten the list of questions she had prepared, had left her scrambling and forced her to resort to trading questions one for one with Miranda in order to allow herself enough time to prepare the next question she would ask.  
  
Each time it was her turn to answer, Andy felt as if Miranda was truly interested in what she was saying. Each question the white-haired woman asked was a corollary to the one before it, building on the woman's knowledge of Andy and incorporating what Andy had revealed in her previous responses.   
  
When Andy asked Miranda questions, the woman was introspective, candid, and brutally frank about her life and career, both the highs and the lows. If the idea wasn't completely ludicrous, Andy would even swear that Miranda had been flirting with her in the later stages of the evening. Now she had more information than any reporter had ever elicited before from Miranda Priestly, the fashion goddess of _Runway_ , but it wasn't nearly enough. She wanted it all. She wanted to know this magnificent woman. And she wanted her article to do Miranda Priestly justice. Unfortunately, she had run out of time.   
  
The waiter was approaching the table to ask them to settle up and leave so the restaurant could close. Andy closed her eyes and swallowed hard, tears burning behind her eyelids. She had stupidly wasted half of her precious time with the fashion icon because she couldn't do something as simple as remember to bring her list of questions. This chance would never come again, and with La Priestly's reputation she didn't dare ask for more. She heard the waiter speak quietly to Miranda, and then she felt soft finger tips brush her wrist gently. She opened her eyes to find Miranda leaning forward, touching her while watching her closely.

  
“You will find, Andrea, that I rarely explain myself. I have recently come to think that in one realm of my life it has been one of my greatest strengths and in another area, one of my greatest weaknesses,” Miranda said conspiratorially as she began to gather her clutch and her coat. “You were not ready to ask the questions you'd have wanted to tonight because you did not know beforehand that I was going to give you carte blanche. This was by my design. I opened myself to questions that I would never normally answer for the press. Then I used your confusion to my advantage in order to learn something of a columnist I have come to admire greatly. Because of my gambit you now do not have all you want for your article. To remedy this I would suggest that we reconvene tomorrow morning. You can think about what's been said and develop more questions you wish to ask. That is, if you are willing to follow me around during my day.”  
  
Andy's head nearly exploded at the offer. Not only was Miranda offering her the opportunity to correct her mistake, she was also offering a look at the inner workings of _Runway_ , something Andy desperately wanted to see. She had come prepared to face the feared and fabled Dragon Lady and had found something very different indeed from what she had expected. As they exited the restaurant side by side Andy's mind began to turn rapidly. She had been singled out by the Dragon Lady at the MoMA fashion show but had made some kind of gaff the first time she'd met the woman on the red carpet and been summarily dismissed. She had come before Miranda unprepared tonight, a condition it was well known that the legend Miranda Priestly simply didn't tolerate, and yet she'd survived not only unscathed but with the woman's active help and cooperation. And toward the end of the evening it had seemed that Miranda had flirted with her.   
  
Her mind flashed back to her conversation with Lily about the anonymously sent flowers. Lily had said the sender was artistic, fiery, passionate, yet rigid and controlled. Was there a better description of the enigmatic woman walking beside her? Lily had also described the bouquet as a love letter sent by one pining for a secret love. An insane idea rocketed through her mind and suddenly it didn't seem quite so crazy anymore. As they approached the doorway to the street where they would likely part company, Andy decided to take a chance. In her opinion it wasn't like she could look much more foolish in the icon’s eyes anyway. Taking a deep breath she said softly to Miranda, “Thank you for the flowers.”  
  
Miranda stopped just feet short of her car as her driver held the door to the passenger compartment open for her. She half turned, her eyes glittering under the unearthly glow of the streetlamps. For an eternal moment Andy was sure that she was going to be told what a fool she was.   
  
“It pleases me that you found my poor effort acceptable,” Miranda replied. “May I offer you a ride home?”  
  
“No, thank you.” Andrea replied with a smile. “My apartment is in the opposite direction from where you live on the East side.” She shrugged, “besides, there's a subway entrance just at the end of the block.”  
  
“If I knew you better I would insist that you take a taxi home, Andrea. One hears regularly of assaults occurring in those underground catacombs. No one with your talent and bright future should be on a subway risking her safety this time of night,” Miranda replied. “But I am in no position to dictate what you do. Be at _Runway_ at 8:30 AM sharp. That's all.” With that she ducked her head and slid into the backseat of the town car. The door to the car was closed, and she was gone.  
  
Andrea stood stunned for a long moment in front of the restaurant watching the town car drive up the street. Miranda Priestly had said she admired her. Had sent her what amounted to a love letter made of five hundred dollars worth of flowers. And, as if that weren’t enough, Miranda Priestly had opened herself to an interview that would unquestionably make Andy's career. Andy had been a writer long enough to learn to read between the lines. Miranda had practically admitted a romantic interest in her. _In little nobody Andy Sachs from Cincinnati, Ohio. Tomorrow,_ she thought, a goofy smile splitting her face, _tomorrow I'll make it clear exactly what I think about that idea. Taxi home?_ her mind continued to turn. _I don't need a taxi home. Right now I could fly home!_


	8. Chapter 8

Saturday October 3rd, 2009   
  
Miranda woke early in the morning before her alarm clock sounded. Sleep last night had been elusive at first, coming down as she had been from the adrenalin high of what she considered a very successful first date with “her” columnist. When Morpheus had finally arrived, Miranda had been treated to a night of restful dreams quite unlike the troubled ones she usually endured.Opening the curtains of her bedroom, she discovered a beautiful, clear, blue sky and a crisp chill in the air outside. _A perfect day_ , she mused, _to begin life anew_. She dressed quickly, and with no time wasted, she had Roy drop her off several blocks from the Elias-Clarke Building because she just felt like walking and enjoying the feeling of a bright future. Deciding that a complete change of her usual routine was in order, she stopped at the Starbucks across the Street from her office and bought her own coffee.  
  
A few minutes before seven found Miranda seated at her desk at _Runway_ , impatiently waiting for the clock to read eight thirty. Because it was a Saturday morning, no one else was in the office at such an early hour. Not even Emily. Feeling exhilarated and a bit mischievous, she went to her assistant's desk, sat down, and curiously looked around the office from Emily's perspective.   
  
The space at the desk was somewhat cramped and the chair uncomfortable. The desk before her was neat and organized, but it was obvious to Miranda that the normal chaos inherent through the monthly creation of _Runway_ lurked just beneath the surface of the piles of material with their precisely aligned edges. This caused her to consider the high-strung woman who was her first assistant and right arm. Emily was fashion. She took risks. Oh, she was by no means always successful. In fact she sometimes came to work looking like a clown. But she risked all for the times when she successfully touched that cutting-edge look.   
  
While Heather would go on to manage the beauty department, Emily, Miranda would keep. With some additional training, Emily's vision of fashion could become artistically beneficial to the magazine. Perhaps she could even help guide the magazine in to the future, allowing Miranda time for a personal life, which she was coming to realize she now desperately wanted. To allow such training would require that Emily's workload be diminished so she could train while doing what she did best for Miranda: managing crises and directing what should and should not cross her boss’s desk. To achieve this it was evident that Emily would need an assistant of her own. Heather's replacement as second assistant could continue to run errands, answer phones, and fetch coffee. Emily's assistant could carry some of the first assistant's load, allowing Emily to concentrate on refining her fashion sense and broadening her career horizons. Where Heather would advance to be a specialist, Emily, like Miranda, would be a generalist, looking at the big picture.  
  
Miranda glanced down at Emily's steno book. Smiling wickedly, she began to compose today's list of instructions. They were the normal litany of a hundred things that needed to be handled immediately. As she penned the single line in the middle of the list instructing Emily to hire two new assistants, she mused on what the woman's face would look like when she read the words. Supremely amused, she left the list of instructions on Emily's desk and went back to her own to leisurely enjoy her coffee.  
  
***   
  
Andy hurried into the Elias-Clarke Building a few minutes before eight, not wanting to take even a chance of being late for her appointment with Miranda. She figured she could always kill some time in the lobby if it were necessary. Sleep hadn't come easily last night after the excitement of their encounter. Thoughts of the tantalizing, white-haired woman continuously played behind her eyelids as she had tried to sleep. She was overwhelmed with the sudden sense possibilities. As dawn broke she had risen from her bed and frantically searched her closet, seeking the perfect ensemble to wear to prove to _the_ Miranda Priestly that she too knew fashion.  
  
Andy remembered every fleeting moment of last night's encounter and, in particular, how Miranda had seemed to hang on every word she had spoken. In a world where Miranda's opinions had defined fashion for the last two decades, Andy could hardly believe that her words had been given such deference. And, as if that weren’t mind-boggling enough, the white-haired woman had actually smiled through much of the evening, often nodding at what Andy had offered to the discussion. Just remembering their evening caused a charge of excitement to race through Andy’s body. She could hardly wait to spend more time with Miranda today.  
  
***  
  
The Three Sisters had all stayed and slept at Karen's after drinking too many margaritas, laughing for hours, and talking late into the night. When sleep had finally claimed them, Karen's dreams had been troubled. They had teased her with an idea of how to punish Danielle for her perfidy. When Karen awoke, she allowed her mind to dwell on the images created while asleep.  
  
In the morning light, the three sat quietly over plates full of Eggs Benedict that Lily had prepared. When Cynthia spoke, her eyes remained glued to the plate in front of her. “There are other women, other lovers Danielle has used, aren't there?” she asked, her tone revealing her pain at the prospect of learning the truth.  
  
Karen stopped eating and glanced up, not wanting to cause additional pain to her new sister, Cynthia. She looked to Lily for an indication of what to do.   
  
Lily nodded slightly, encouraging Karen to speak the truth to their new friend.  
  
Karen sighed. “At least two others. Two that I know the names of,” she answered.  
  
Cynthia stiffened and nodded. “It was all lies, wasn't it?” she asked rhetorically. Then she sighed and went back to moving the quickly cooling food around on her plate. “She finds people who only want to be loved, and she uses them for all she can get before destroying them with their weaknesses. All because they need another human being to care about them.” She closed her eyes and swallowed back tears.  
  
Karen had been unsure of her idea. Unsure that the three of them had the necessary resources and where-with-all to pull it off. Seeing her spiritual sister in such pain and self-doubt, however, she decided that some plan was better than no plan. And perhaps they could find a way to make it work. “The way to damage Danielle is to attack her public persona,” she began.  
  
The other two women at the table stopped eating and hung on to every word.  
  
“If we can publicly make her look like a fool,” she continued, “crash that self-inflated, overblown ego, it would punish Danielle like nothing else I can think of. I have an idea, but I'm not sure we have the resources to pull it off. I also don't know if you'd be willing to play the part I have in mind for you, Lily, seeing as you were not personally involved with Danielle and don't really have the impetus to want to get even.”  
  
Lily looked at Karen over the rim of her coffee cup. “Spill, girl,” she demanded, “cause your idea would have to be just short of murder for me to tell you to count me out.”  
  
Karen nodded. “She conned us, so we con her,” she began. “She hasn't met you, Lily, so we present you to her as an up-and-coming executive at a major magazine publisher. With Danielle's mania to be the voice of fashion and always wanting to be on the cutting edge, if she sees you as vulnerable and ready for manipulation, then she won’t be able to resist attaching herself to your ‘rising star.’ Her position at _The Times_ is tenuous. If she thinks she has a way to make a jump to a major magazine publication, she'll take it. We can arrange it so she believes she has that opportunity. Knowing her, she will want to fire some parting shots when she thinks she can leave _The Times_ with impunity. When she's made a complete fool of herself, we’ll spring on her that she's been conned. Her ego won't be able to take it, and we'll have some measure of justice.”  
  
Lily smiled wickedly over the rim of her coffee cup, and her eyes sparkled mischievously at the woman seated across from her. “Karen,” she began, her tone nonchalant, “didn't Andy tell me that Danielle is involved in some kind of insane war of words with the head of _Runway Magazine_?”  
  
“Yeah,” Karen responded. “She's been sparring with Miranda Priestly for more than a year, although I don't think that the Dragon Lady has taken it very seriously. I mean, you piss that woman off, and you’re done in this town.”  
  
Lily nodded. “And what company is her magazine published by?” she continued, her voice sounding innocent.  
  
Karen's eyes became wide. “We make Danielle think you're with Elias-Clarke. That you cannot only get her a job but also intervene on her behalf in the public battle she's having with the Ice Queen!”  
  
Lily giggled, “Not only intervene but make her the winner.”  
  
Cynthia nodded, looking to Lily. “It could work,” she said softly. “Danielle wouldn't be able to resist going public with something like that.”  
  
“Might work even better if we bring the other women she's messed with in on it,” Lily offered as she raised her coffee cup to her lips.  
  
Karen nodded again, “You're right, Lily. Danielle chose each of them for a reason. Something that would directly benefit her. Their help would mean resources to call on. More sources to make the con believable. If we tell them the truth and offer them a chance to get even...”  
  
Cynthia's evil grin matched Lily's. “Looks like the Sisterhood is going to have some new members,” she chuckled.  
  
***  
  
Emily was having a meltdown. It was Saturday, and she had arrived at the office at a few minutes before eight, earlier than she usually would have on a weekend morning. Still, she hadn't beaten Miranda there. In fact, Miranda had been in the office long enough to find someone to retrieve her coffee before Emily had even arrived. Emily frantically wondered as she again tried Heather's cell phone whether Miranda had coerced Roy into doing it. The girl simply wasn't picking up. It was then that Emily's eyes swept down the to-do list that she'd found on her desk, written in Miranda's elegant handwriting. Her eyes widened as they found the entry about hiring two new assistants. Heather walked into the room, the strains of Christina Aguilera’s _Fighter_ blaring from her cell phone.   
  
“For God's sake, Emily, it's Saturday, and it isn't eight, yet!” she hissed at the nearly hysterical girl.  
  
“We're both sacked,” wailed the redhead, handing the steno book to Heather.   
  
Heather glanced at it and smiled. “Well my replacement is because I'm being transferred down to the Make-Up department. Yours, on the other hand...”  
  
“Yours is not a replacement, Emily,” came Miranda's voice from her office doorway. Emily looked up to see the editor leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb. “I shall be expanding your duties. In light of that, you will now require an assistant of your own since much of your time will be spent preparing for your future as an editor for our publication. You are responsible for hiring the position. Choose well, because as soon as the position is filled and the employee has had some rudimentary training, you will be attached to me at the hip. All meetings, all run-throughs, all shows and photo-shoots I attend, you will also be attending.”  
  
Emily stood open-mouthed, doing a passable impression of a goldfish that had jumped out of its bowl. The edges of Miranda's mouth quirked up in her version of a quick smile.  
  
“Heather,” she said, looking at the other assistant, her tone almost amused, “when Emily remembers how to breathe, please inform her that we will have a guest today. Your friend from _The Times_ is coming to see the internal workings of _Runway_. She will arrive in the next few moments. Once Emily regains her senses and properly greets our guest, you will fetch two coffees: one for me and the other for your friend. I am confident you know her preferred beverage.”  
  
Miranda watched as Heather swallowed and nodded her understanding of the directive she was being given. The icon also noted that Emily was still having trouble gathering herself.  
  
At that moment the doors to the office opened and all heads turned to see Andrea Sachs enter the room. She was dressed in an extremely chic take off of an English private school uniform consisting of a long jacket with a school coat-of-arms over the breast, a short skirt, and the most amazing pair of Chanel boots. In place of the uniform tie, the woman wore a multitude of gold chains. Miranda's mouth went dry, and for once she was without words to describe the vision before her. Her body clenched. Suddenly aroused, she unconsciously licked her lips.  
  
“Good Morning, Miranda,” Andrea said, her tone jovial. “I trust I'm not late?” she asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously as they focused on Miranda's mouth. Her beautiful lips creased in a wicked little smile, and Miranda had the impression that the young woman knew exactly how she was affecting her.  
  
"No,” Miranda husked and then, realizing the inappropriateness of her tone, she cleared her throat and felt herself blush as she answered again. “No, not at all. Welcome, Andrea. Welcome to _Runway_.” She glared at her two assistants, daring them to even think about commenting. To Heather she said, “Coffee, now.” Turning to Emily she said, “Confirm Andrea’s and my lunch plans.” Glancing back to her guest she smiled a genuine smile. “I thought we might start your day with a cup of coffee in my office...”  
  
***   
  
The morning had flown by as Miranda had shown Andy the inner-workings of the publication which the white-haired icon had ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove for more than twenty years. Even on a Saturday morning, the offices of _Runway Magazine_ were humming. The high point of the morning was when Miranda escorted Andy into a meeting in Nigel's office to finalize the decision on which photographs of the Orla Frostrop show and photo shoot would be used in the November issue. Andy was shocked to see a number of the photographs she herself had taken on the large display board awaiting the final cut.  
  
The discussion between Miranda and Nigel was spirited about which photos from the shoot _Runway_ had done and the photographs of the show that the _Runway_ photographer had taken would be used in the final edit of the article. The one thing they were in complete agreement on was that two of the photos that Andy had taken captured the “spirit” of the show, and those two photographs were going to be used on the double page spread that would open the article, introducing the magnificent new designer's fashions to the world. Such an honor left Andy speechless.  
  
Luncheon was another surprise. Miranda whisked Andy out of the Elias-Clarke Building and took her to Smith & Wollensky, where Andy was shocked to find her employer Roger Hoskens, the Editor-in-Chief of _The New York Times_ , waiting for them at Miranda's table.  
  
“Roger,” Miranda said as they approached the table, her tone friendly and her demeanor charming.  
  
Roger rose, smiling. “Miranda, so good to see you again.”  
  
Miranda smiled, “And of course you know your Fashion columnist, Andrea Sachs,” she said, indicating a suddenly nervous Andy.  
  
“Yes, of course, you were kind enough to bring her first article to my attention,” Roger replied, moving to hold Miranda's chair as she sat down.  
  
The words struck to Andy’s core. Miranda was the other publishing giant who had been in her corner when the chance to write for _The Times_ had occurred.  
  
Miranda elegantly placed her napkin in her lap. “I'm so pleased that you were able to join us today, Roger. I do apologize for the short notice, but there are two pieces of business concerning your paper I would like to discuss with you.”  
  
“Of course,” Roger replied equitably, moving to mirror his previous courtesy to Miranda for Andy. “The last tidbits you brought to me were certainly worth my time. The stories they generated sold a large number of papers.”  
  
Miranda nodded. “I fear that the first item concerns an internal problem at your organization,” she said, signaling for a waiter.  
  
Roger nodded as her and retook his own seat.  
  
Miranda steepled her fingers. “As I am sure you know, Andrea was to interview me last evening.”  
  
Roger again nodded, his green eyes locked with Miranda's blue ones.  
  
“What you likely haven't heard yet is that last evening someone identifying herself as Karen Wilson, the editor of your Style section, contacted my office just before the interview was supposed to take place. The person on the telephone told my executive assistant that Andrea would not be attending the interview. In fact, my assistant was told that _The Times_ had no interest in interviewing me. That I was irrelevant to the world of fashion and _The Times_ wasn't interested in the past, only the future. Then the person slandered both Ms. Wilson and Andrea by implying a...liaison existed and that the two would be spending the night together rather than seeing to the business of your publication. I must confess, Roger,” she said pensively, “I was a bit hurt by what was said.”  
  
Roger looked aghast. “Miranda, I hope you know that my organization would never purposely insult someone of you stature in such a way.”   
  
“Of course I know that Roger. Well... at least today I do. But if it hadn't been for this young woman's tenacity and persistence last night,” Miranda continued as if Andy weren't sitting right there, “I would not have attended the interview last evening. In fact I would have withdrawn my invitation from _The Times_ to meet with me, and I would have given the interview to your major competitor.”  
  
Roger swallowed audibly.  
  
“Andrea finally managed to convince me that there had been some kind of miscommunication and assured me that it could not have been Ms. Wilson who called to cancel the interview. Andrea has informed me that Ms. Wilson is on 'vacation' from the paper and was not present or, to Andrea's knowledge, even privy to the information that a meeting between us had been scheduled. Having those assurances from your Fashion columnist, I agreed again to meet with her,” Miranda continued, her tone light. “We spoke for several hours last evening, and she impressed me to the point that not only did I rescind my normal restrictions about what questions I'll answer for the press, I also allowed her to talk me into extending the interview through today. I tell you Robert, this morning has been a regular inquisition. The questioning has been brutal. I've answered questions that I'd never even considered answering for the press before. Your paper shall have a very revealing article when she's done.” Miranda concluded with a light chuckle.   
  
Roger's eyes were now firmly on Andy, who became terribly nervous. “Well, we do what we can to hire the best at _The Times_.”  
  
“Yes, but it also appears that you might have someone in your organization who doesn't have _The Times'_ best interests at heart,” Miranda offered, her demeanor suddenly subtly sad. “I know the kind of reputation I have in the industry. I am reputed to neither forgive nor forget slights and that I pursue and punish those who do me or my publication wrong.” She said, her tone as cold as iron, then she sighed and looked off into space speculatively. “Attaching Ms. Wilson's name to something that I truly believe was intended to drive a wedge between the good relations your paper and my magazine have been building over the last few weeks smacks of someone with a bone to pick with your Fashion editor. I don't suppose you might know of some employee who might fit that bill?”   
  
Roger's eyes left Andy and returned to the Devil in Heels. “I appreciate your bringing this to my attention, Miranda,” he offered softly. “But I'm sure that you can understand that this is a _Times'_ internal matter. I really can't comment at this time.”  
  
Miranda nodded. “Of course,” she answered, “and I'm sure that you'll get to the bottom of it and take appropriate action.”  
  
Roger again nodded. “You said you had two pieces of business you wished to discuss.”  
  
Miranda smiled. “Yes,” she said. “ _Runway_ has a proposition for _The Times_. How would you like your Fashion columnist to have front row access to all of the events at Fashion Week in Paris? The same kind of access that _Runway_ gets?” She asked offhandedly while apparently studying the menu.  
  
Roger shook his head. “It would be wonderful, but we're not budgeted for it this year.”  
  
Andy sat, gaping at Miranda.   
  
Miranda glanced up from her menu. “Well, there is room on the plane _Runway_ has chartered, and we've booked more space than we’ll need in the hotel we will be using as our headquarters, so your reporter's expenses would be limited to what it would cost to feed her.”  
  
The head of _The New York Times_ looked into the eyes of the Ice Queen of _Runway_. “Miranda, my experience has taught me that an offer too good to be true usually is. Why do I think that somewhere down the line this kindness is going to cost me?”  
  
Miranda chuckled as her eyes fell on Andy. “Because you've been in the game long enough that you know how it's played, Roger,” she answered playfully. “Do try the steak grilled over an apple-wood fire; they prepare it wonderfully here.”  
  
***   
  
Two late morning telephone calls and lunch had been arranged at a trendy midtown Manhattan eatery. The three founding members of the Sisterhood met for the first time with their two new potential candidates for membership.  
  
Karen, Lily, and Cynthia had, of course, Googled their new prospects prior to inviting them to lunch, so they knew a little about them.   
  
The first to arrive to their table was Natalie Strothers. Natalie was a self-made woman. Starting with one small store she had, in a relatively short time, built an empire of trendy retail boutiques located in major cities up and down the East Coast. From there she had branched out into public relations and created one of the most sought after P.R. firms in the country. A firm that actually boasted a long waiting list of important people who wanted to become their clients.  
  
Millicent Darling, more of an enigma to the Three Sisters, approached the table shyly. She was frumpily dressed and had her nondescript long, brown hair down over her face, hiding her features. About all the Three Sisters had been able to learn about her was that she was very young, that had inherited a quite significant fortune in real estate recently, and that socially she was considered something of a reclusive eccentric.  
  
The Three Sisters had agreed prior to their guests’ arrival that Karen would act as the spokesperson for their group. Once everyone was seated at the table and had ordered drinks, she introduced Lily and Cynthia to the newcomers, and then she addressed the reason they had come together. “All of us save Lily,” she said, indicating the woman sitting at her side, “have been used, and I dare say hurt, by the actions of Danielle Gold.” Looking from Natalie to Millicent she continued. “We’ve asked you here today because we have a plan to get even.”   
  
Natalie watched Karen, evidently interested in what was being said. Millicent on the other hand seemed to be looking nervously everywhere but at the women at the table. “What do you have in mind?” Natalie asked curiously.  
  
“We intend to con her. Make her think that Lily is an executive at Elias-Clarke Publishing and that she can both get her an important job at _Runway_ and that she can intervene in the war of words that Danielle has been waging with Miranda Priestly,” Karen said, locking eyes with Natalie. “We're going to convince Danielle that Lily can make Miranda publicly back down and admit that Danielle's position is the correct one. Knowing Danielle's ego, if she believes she has the upper hand over someone like the Ice Queen, she won't be able to resist crowing about it to the general public. Once she's put herself in the position where she's made a complete ass of herself, we'll let her know she's been conned, just like she conned each one of us.”  
  
Natalie continued to watch Karen, as if evaluating her. “I can see how it might work,” she said. “The question is, what do you want from us?”  
  
Karen smiled, “Only as much or as little as you're willing to offer,” she replied. “Cynthia and I have been badly hurt by Danielle. We've decided we want some payback. We thought you two might also want to even the score,” she said glancing at Millicent, who was still looking everywhere but at the group at the table.  
  
Natalie glanced to Lily, “And what's your beef with Danielle?” She demanded of the young African-American woman.  
  
Lily met Natalie's eyes. “Danielle hurt Karen. I've come to care about Karen. I intend to hurt Danielle. In fact, if it wasn't for this little plan of ours, I'd just go kick her ass.”  
  
Natalie smiled. “Oh, I LIKE you!” she said enthusiastically. She turned to Karen. “I'm in,” she said. “Just tell me what you need,” she stated, picking up her menu.  
  
Millicent, who still had not said a single word to the gathered women, rose suddenly and rushed out of the restaurant.  
  
The group watched her go. “You don't suppose that she'd warn Danielle do you?” Cynthia asked no one in particular.  
  
The others shrugged and began to peruse their menus.  
  
“Strange girl,” Cynthia observed quietly.

***

A large portion of the afternoon had been spent with Miranda showing Andy _Runway's_ fabled closet. Miranda gave every indication that she found the small sounds of pleasure that Andy made in reaction to the gathered couture gratifying to say the least. It was then Miranda suggested that Andy simply had to try on some of the things that she felt would most flatter the beautiful brunette.  
  
Andy spent the next two hours excitedly trying on things that she only could wish she could afford. But while part of her was feeling like a kid in a candy store, a small voice in the back of her head was nagging at her. She needed to know what she was doing here. Needed to know what it was that Miranda wanted from her. From inside the dressing cubical she called out the question that was plaguing her. “Miranda,” she asked. “What am I doing here?"  
  
Miranda paused a moment, as if considering the question. “I thought you were here to interview me,” she answered, the playful lilt to her tone telling Andy that the interview had little to do with the true reason.

Andy decided to try again. She stepped from the dressing room in a Kay Unger one-shoulder dress in an almond metallic luster brocade. In her hand she carried the matching cropped jacket to complete the ensemble. Turning her back to Miranda and sensuously lifting her thick brunette hair she asked, “Would you zip me up?” She felt Miranda's hands tremble as they pulled the zipper closed. “Why am I here Miranda?” she asked again, her voice almost a whisper.

Miranda's demeanor suddenly became serious. “I had not intended to address this yet, but it is because I intend to lure you away from that silly newspaper and have you come to work for _Runway,_ where you belong,” she said coolly, her eyes looking anywhere but at Andy. “Your talents are wasted there. They have clearly demonstrated their ignorance about fashion, proving this by having Danielle Gold's misguided ideas representing their position on the subject for more than a year. In their ignorance they cannot possibly appreciate your talent as the audience of my publication can. Nor can they offer you the future that _Runway_ can.”

Andy turned and looked at Miranda as the woman offered her the job of her dreams--writing for the magazine she had read from cover to cover from the time she was able to read. The magazine that she saved her allowances to buy even as a child. She looked at the white-haired icon. “Are you offering me a job, Miranda?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” Miranda answered, her eyes still looking everywhere than at the young, brown-eyed woman.

Andy nodded. “I guess the interview is over then,” she sighed sadly. “I'll just change back into my street clothes and get out of your hair...”

***

Evening was falling as Cynthia sat in her office at Barnaby, Greer and Treat. She'd spent the late afternoon catching up on work she'd neglected the previous day while she was with Karen and Lily drinking margaritas. The office was empty and silent at this time of night on a Saturday, and she was the only employee in the building. She heard a soft noise and looked up from the papers on her desk. Before her stood Millicent Darling, looking for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights. “Ms. Darling,” Cynthia said, rising from her chair. “What can I do for you?”

The young woman looked around the office, anywhere but at the woman in front of her. “I've just turned eighteen,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just reached my majority. Until my parents' death last year, I had spent most of my life at an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. The kind of place that completely shelters the girls sent there. I've never really fit in anywhere. Never really had any friends.” She turned to the window and looked out. “I hadn't really had any kind of life experience before I met Danielle. It was less than a month after my parents had died. She made me believe that someone loved me. Made me believe that I was worth something. She was my first kiss and my first sexual experience.” She shook her head and looked down. “My only sexual experience with another person.”

In the soft light from her office desk lamp, Cynthia saw the trails the tears made down her young guest's face. Her heart broke a little for this scared, fragile creature before her.

“I gave her the BMW she drives and the condo she lives in,” the girl almost whispered, her pain clearly evident in her voice. “My Butler, Fitzsimmons, served my parents before me. He's been with the family since before I was born. He didn't trust Danielle and counseled me to stop giving her expensive gifts. He risked all by overstepping his position and hiring a private detective to check up on Danielle's motives. Six months ago he found out that Danielle was seeing two other women. You were one of them. When I got up the nerve to confront Danielle about it, she laughed at me. She told me that I was nothing. A terrible girlfriend and lousy in bed. That she'd only put up with me for the things I could give her. Then she left. I haven't heard from her since.” She turned and for the first time met Cynthia's eyes. “I want to get even. To hurt her as she's hurt me. You have kind eyes. I believe that you understand. That you've been hurt as I have. I don't know what I could offer to what you and the others are planning, but if you'll accept my help, I'd like to do whatever I can.”

Cynthia smiled softly. “Welcome to the Sisterhood, Millicent,” she said softly.

***

At a few moments after ten PM the doorbell of Nigel's apartment rang for the second time in rapid succession. Nigel stirred himself from his position on his couch. The day had been busy reworking the November issue, but just after six he had finalized the last placement of the photos for the Orla Frostrop article and sent the digital copy to the printer. The printer was doing a special run tomorrow, and Monday morning would see the November issue of _Runway_ in the mail to subscribers and on newsstands only a few days behind schedule. Nigel had to admit that the Frostrop article was some of the best work _Runway_ had run in years. He went looking for Miranda to congratulate her for her vision, only to be informed by Emily that she had left about four in the afternoon without so much as a word. He glanced though the peephole and was surprised to see Miranda's countenance through the lens. Opening the door he greeted her with, “Miranda, what a surprise. Won't you come in?”

Miranda stepped through the doorway with exaggerated care, and Nigel could clearly smell scotch. His eyes widened fractionally as he realized his employer and friend was drunk. “Miranda,” he said softly, “you're smashed!”

Miranda drew herself up. “I am not,” she insisted, her words slightly slurred as she reached out to place her hand on the wall, steadying herself.

Nigel's mind quickly ran back over his association with Miranda. He had seen the woman drunk only once, the night she had finally decided she had to divorce her first husband because of his numerous less than discrete affairs. Her first husband was the only husband who Nigel believed Miranda had really loved. He offered an arm to steady the woman he idolized and led her to the couch, seeing her safely seated. Miranda looked up at him, and he noticed that she looked lost.

“I'd ask you out for coffee,” Miranda offered tentatively, “but I don't want coffee. I want more scotch.”

Nigel nodded and started for the kitchen. “I think I still have some of that wonderful single malt that I picked up in London during Fashion Week,” he said. He placed two highball glasses on the counter. Building Miranda's drink, he placed a lot of ice in the glass before adding water and a splash of scotch. His own glass was less ice and straight scotch. He had a distinct feeling he was going to need it. Returning to the couch, he offered Miranda her drink. “So,” he began. “Where did you spend your evening, and to what to I owe the distinct pleasure of your company tonight?”

Miranda took a pull off her drink and then looked at Nigel. “I went to that horrid little bar just down the street from the office. Do you know that the place doesn't even serve top shelf scotch? I spent my afternoon drinking something called _Old Smuggler_. It tasted like dung, but it got the job done.”

Nigel nodded again. “You are smashed,” he said softly. “If I may I ask, what's the occasion?”

Miranda again raised her glass to her lips and emptied it before glaring at Nigel and then at the floor. “I've ruined it. But I suppose that shouldn't be any surprise. I ruin everything I want,” she said, her voice cracking.

Nigel looked at his friend. He knew that this wasn't the Miranda he was familiar with. That Miranda faced obstacles head on. She didn't try to drink her problems away. “Do I dare suppose that something went wrong with the interview this afternoon?” he asked.

Miranda nodded, holding out her glass, evidently expecting Nigel to refill it. “We were in the Closet. I was having her try on things. Nigel,” she said after a short pause, “she's so beautiful, more beautiful than any of those emaciated models we use. She has a woman's curves. Such magnificent curves,” Miranda continued, her eyes closing and her face going dreamy.

Nigel rose and took Miranda's glass from her. “What happened?” he asked.

“I offered her a position at _Runway_. She changed back into the clothes she'd worn this morning and left. She should have kept the Kay Unger she was trying on. She was mouth-watering in it,” Miranda said, rising and unsteadily following Nigel into the kitchen.

Being watched precluded Nigel from watering down Miranda's next drink. Against his better judgment, he handed her a straight scotch on the rocks. “And did she take the job?” he asked carefully.

“No.” Miranda answered. “In fact she told me in no uncertain terms that she wouldn't work for me. Not now, not ever.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained off about a third of the amber liquid.

Nigel shook his head. “Oh, Miranda,” he said sadly. “You are so good in public life, but you make your private life so difficult.”

Miranda gave him her patented glare. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “The girl is a talented writer. She will, given time, be a great writer. _Runway_ could forge her, shape her into what she could become.”

Nigel smiled a soft smile and again nodded. “But that's not what either of you want, Miranda,” he said. “Why don't you lie down. Perhaps even close your eyes for a little while. Let Uncle Nigel take care of this mess for you.”

Miranda looked at him, something like hope appearing in her eyes. “Could you do that,

Nigel?” she asked softly. “Can you fix this? I know I’ve messed it up somehow. I thought she'd be pleased. That a position at _Runway_ would please her. I wanted to please her...” Miranda said, sitting back on the couch and closing her eyes.

Moments later Nigel carefully took the glass from her hand and gently lay her down, lifting her legs on the couch. He quietly went to his linen closet and took out a blanket. Returning to the living room, he placed the blanket over the sleeping woman. “Sleep well, Miranda,” he whispered gently. “I'm going out for a little while. With any luck, when I come back all will be right in the world.”

***

Andy had been restlessly roaming her apartment since late afternoon. Since Miranda Priestly has shown her true colors. All Miranda wanted was another writer. Another peon in the machine that was _Runway_. It was a hell of an offer. A career making offer. An offer most young writers, especially those interested in fashion, would jump at. She had told Miranda Priestly, Dragon Lady, Ice Queen, Devil in Heels, no, in no uncertain terms. She wondered at her sanity, but the one thing she was sure of was that she didn't want to work for Miranda. If she was working for her, she couldn't sleep with her or kiss her or love her for the rest of her life. And that's what Andy wanted to do more than anything in the world. She wanted to love Miranda and pamper her and make her life better every minute of every day from now on.

At a few minutes after eleven, her cell phone rang.

She thought for a moment about letting it go to voice mail, but something made her check the caller I.D. She picked up the phone and answered with, “Hello, Nigel. What can I do for you?”

“Meet me for a drink.” Nigel replied.

“It's late, Nigel,” she answered quietly, “and I don't think I feel like facing the world again tonight.”

“Andy,” Nigel said, “please hear me out. Miranda is the most amazing woman I know in public life. In her private life she's an unmitigated disaster. She wanted nothing more than to impress you. Her hope was that if she could just buy some time, she might have a chance with your overlooking the fact that she has no idea how to act when she’s trying to woo someone she's interested in. If I am to be truly frank, she has no idea of how to act once inside a relationship either. Her hope was that maybe you'd stay around long enough that she could find a way to win you over.”

“Win me over?” Andy said. “Win me over for what? So I can write for _Runway_? I don't want to work for _Runway_. Well, maybe that's a lie, I do want to work for _Runway,_ but I can't. Not while Miranda is in charge. I can't work for Miranda, Nigel. I won't break the cardinal rule about going out with somebody you work with, and I couldn't be there every day working with her and wanting to go out with her and knowing it would never happen! It would make me crazy, Nigel.

Nigel laughed from the other end of the phone connection. “She doesn't want you to work for _Runway_ either if that means that you won't date her. What you want is what she wants, Andy. She wants you to go out with her. She wants to try and build something lasting between the two of you. She just doesn't know how to ask for what she wants more than anything.”

“Is this where I say speak for yourself John Alden?” Andy asked, annoyed. “If she wants something so badly, why are you making this call? Where is she?” Andy demanded.

“Drunk on my couch,” Nigel answered. “I've known Miranda for twenty years, and I've never seen her as scared as she is right now. I've only seen her drunk one time before. That was a long time ago and under very difficult circumstances. She needs you Andy; she just doesn't know how to tell you that.”

“Drunk?” Andy asked uncertainly.

“Smashed,” Nigel replied. “Seems she left Runway right after you did and dedicated the rest of the afternoon and evening to drinking.”

“If she's drunk on your couch, where are you calling from?” Andy asked, now worried.

“I'm standing out in front of my building looking for a cab, but I thought it prudent to find out where you wanted to get a drink before I got in the taxi. It's a good idea to have a destination before they start the meter running. It can get expensive otherwise," Nigel chuckled.

“Nigel,” Andy said emphatically, “if she's drunk at your place, you can't leave her alone. What if she gets sick?”

“God forbid!” Nigel exclaimed. “She'd better not! She's asleep on my new white silk-brocade sofa!”

“Go back upstairs and keep an eye on her,” Andy said, her tone bordering on frantic as she thought of Miranda all alone. “I'll come to you. What's your address?” she demanded.

Twenty minutes later Andy knocked softly on Nigel's apartment door. Nigel opened it and motioned her inside.

Andy's eyes immediately fell on the beautiful, softly snoring, white-haired head sticking out from under the blanket on the couch. Her shoulders sagged. “What am I going to do, Nigel?” she asked, hopelessly.

Nigel handed her a glass of scotch on the rocks. “It depends entirely on what you want,” he answered. “If you want a relationship with her, I recommend that you accept the fact that she'll be late to dinner four nights out of seven. She'll forget dates that are important to you, miss things you have scheduled together. She's brilliant, a genius—and her outlet, her child, is _Runway_. Try to take that from her, you'll lose.”

Andy clutched the glass of alcohol. “I'd never try to take that from her. That's who she is. She's worked a lifetime to achieve what she has.”

“Her last two husbands both said that they could take it. That they understood about her work. About the demands it makes on her. They both changed their tunes after she'd married them.” Nigel replied, his eyes on Andy. She had the feeling he was assessing her.

Andy sighed softly. “She's had a lot of pain in her life, hasn't she?” she asked, her eyes glued to the beautiful face of the sleeping woman.

Nigel stiffened, obviously surprised at the insightful declaration. “How do know that? Did she tell you?” he questioned.

Andy shook her head. She knew that Miranda usually hid her feelings from everyone. She was so good at it that the world at large believed her made of ice. After spending so much time with her over the last couple of days, though, Andy knew much more existed behind Miranda’s business persona. Her eyes turned from Miranda's sleeping form and met Nigel's. “She didn't have to tell me, Nigel. It’s evident in everything she says and does. One just has to look at her to know the pain she carries around inside her. The loneliness and the heartbreak that are her constant companions.”

“And knowing how broken and difficult she is, you're here because?” Nigel asked.

Andy didn't look away. Didn't flinch from the question. “Because I see the woman Miranda, not the icon La Priestly. I want to help her Nigel. I want to be the one who makes her life a little easier. To be the one who soothes her troubled brow and eases her pain. I want to take care of her. I want to love her, Nigel.” Andy shook her head and a tear ran down her cheek. “I'm already gone on her.”

Nigel shook his head as if to clear it, and then he nodded. “You'll do,” he said softly. “If you can read her like that based on the short acquaintance you've had and if you're willing to try to build something with her, you'll have my full support and cooperation. Because God knows she needs somebody. She’s hard, Andy, but she deserves to be loved. And by God, I think you might just be the one who can do it.”

Sunday October 4th, 2009

Light crept through Miranda's shut eyelids. She mentally cursed. She must have forgotten to close the blackout blinds in her bedroom. Odd, she thought, that the alarm hadn't woken her. She was usually up before the sun's rays could intrude through her bedroom windows. She grimaced. Her head hurt, and her mouth tasted foul. _Hungover. What a delightful way to start a morning,_ she thought ironically.

She opened her eyes and found herself only partially undressed and lying on top of the covers of her own bed. Wondering how she had arrived at this particular set of circumstances, she thought back over last night. She had offered Andrea a job at _Runway,_ and Andrea had refused. Not only refused but ended the interview and left. She remembered being hurt and certain that she had somehow again managed to ruin everything she wanted for herself. She recalled leaving work and going to the closest place she could to get a drink. It was that awful little plebeian bar down the street from the office. She remembered trying to drink away the pain of her failure to win Andrea's favor. After many glasses of that awful scotch, almost enough glasses to empty the bottle, things got fuzzy.

Miranda vaguely remembered some ridiculous man in a bad polyester shirt and a dirty trucker's cap coming on to her. She shuddered. She vaguely remembered quietly telling him _exactly_ what she thought of that idea. Or perhaps it hadn't been as quietly as she had first thought since by the time she had finished the quiet, scathing diatribe every other person in the bar was laughing, and the man in the dirty trucker's cap had fled. After that she only had fleeting pieces, images without context. The impression of riding in a foul smelling taxi. An amazingly comfortable white silk-brocade sofa and Nigel spouting some silliness about Uncle Nigel taking care of everything.

She had slept, and Morpheus had allowed her a beautiful dream. In the dream she had opened her eyes in the half light of a single end table lamp. Andrea had been seated in one of the matching white silk-brocade chairs. She had smiled at Miranda and spoken gently. She had said that she would see Miranda safely home. Then they had taken a taxi together where Miranda dozed peacefully, her head resting on Andrea's shoulder. Soon after, Miranda had been lying on her back, Andrea's hands on her, undressing her. Desire had surged inside her, and she had reached up, grasping the lapels of Andrea's coat. She had needed to taste Andrea's lips. She had felt the need to kiss Andrea or she’d die. So, she had pulled the girl down on top of her and kissed her as if she was drowning and Andrea's lips were a lifeline.

She opened her eyes and forced herself from the bed. Glancing at the clock, she was glad it was Sunday because it was mid-morning. Had today been a work day, Emily would be having a nervous breakdown by this point due to Miranda's unexplained absence. Ridding herself of her remaining rumpled clothing, she stumbled into her bathroom and started the shower. Dreading what she must look like but needing to assess the damage she might have done to herself, she glanced into the mirror over the sink. Her lips were smeared with lipstick. Not her color lipstick. She went cold and then hot and then cold again.

She had kissed Andrea. Kissed her passionately and wantonly. Practically forced herself upon the girl, and try as she might she could remember nothing beyond the heated touch of Andrea's lips. Head down, she sagged against the sink. If she hadn't ruined everything before, she certainly had now. For the first time in a decade she felt hard tears threatening to fall.  
  
She let them.


	9. Chapter 9

Sunday, October 4th 2009  
  
A shower didn't help matters. Miranda was still hung over and in the depths of despair even after she’d managed to wrap herself in her treasured plain gray bathrobe and stumbled down the stairs toward the kitchen. She experienced momentary confusion as she thought she had encountered the strong smell of fresh coffee brewing, but that wasn't possible. Her girls were away on a two-week long class trip to Colorado for skiing, and her cook/housekeeper had Sundays off. She continued toward the kitchen, and to her amazement there stood Andrea pouring a cup of coffee from the pot in to one of Miranda's favored large mugs. Miranda stiffened. Andrea had stayed. Stayed, no doubt, to look after a foolish, drunken old woman. Now that Miranda was up and more or less sober, Andrea would leave, likely never to speak to her again.  
  
The beautiful brunette stiffened as she heard Miranda's soft footfalls entering the kitchen. Miranda knew that she must have Andrea in her life in any capacity the young journalist would permit. She had to do something immediately to mitigate the damage she had undoubtedly inflicted last evening to their burgeoning friendship with her foolish, drunken actions. “Andrea,” she said tentatively, “I am SO sorry...”  
  
Andrea turned, coffee mug still in hand. Her eyes were hard, angry. “Don't you DARE apologize to me, Miranda Priestly, unless you didn't mean the things you said to me last night!”  
  
Miranda was taken aback. This was not the reaction she had been expecting. “What I said to you?” she echoed. “Andrea...I was very drunk. I acted foolishly. I believe I assaulted you. My memory of events is quite hazy. I fear I don't know what I said,” she admitted, ashamed.  
  
Andrea flushed, busying herself by splashing some cream in her coffee. She shook her head. “If you don't remember, it doesn't matter,” she said, her voice very soft.  
  
Miranda was good at reading people. The woman before her was on the verge of tears. She realized that this was an all or nothing moment—one of those unique occasions which would result in either rejoicing or regretting for the rest of their lives what was about to occur over the next few minutes. In extreme situations too much thought was anathema to getting what the heart wanted. Miranda didn't even think about what to say, opting for the unvarnished truth. “I would hope I said that I have developed intense feelings for you and that I would, if you are willing, very much like to explore the possibility of our building a life together.”  
  
The fog of fear and pain on the girl's face evaporated into the blinding sunrise of a smile lighting her continence. “You were a bit more direct than that, but that about covers the gist of it,” she said happily. “Now how do you take your coffee?” she continued while turning back to the counter.  
  
Miranda stepped up behind where Andrea stood at the counter. “More direct?” she asked softly and noticed that the sound of her voice and her breath caressing the back of the young woman's neck made the girl shiver deliciously.  
  
Andrea swallowed hard and nodded, trying to busy herself with pouring a cup of coffee for Miranda.  
  
Miranda wondered for a brief moment about how one would be more direct than a simple statement of intention, but the thought was washed away by the need to kiss the flawless skin of the girl’s throat. Seemingly of their own volition, one hand moved the young woman's magnificent brunette hair and the other snaked around her waist. As if entranced Miranda leaned in and pressed her lips softly to Andrea's throat just over the pulse point. The soft moan it elicited from Andrea was far sweeter than that first sip of a scalding latte in the morning. She redoubled her efforts, raining rapid, butterfly kisses on the girl's throat.  
  
Andrea moaned again softly and turned in Miranda's arms so that they stood face to face with Andrea's back against the counter. Her hand came up to Miranda's chin and lifted Miranda’s face up and away from her neck. Miranda was about to protest the loss of contact when Andrea's lips captured hers in a passionate kiss that clearly demonstrated both desire and need. Miranda felt her own desire surge and met the onslaught, their tongues fighting the most intimate of duels. Long moments passed as Miranda reveled in the connection with Andrea, knowing now that her feelings were returned. When she finally pulled away to catch her breath, she beheld Andrea, her Andrea's face flushed and eyes pleasure-drunk.  
  
“Kiss me again,” Andrea breathed. “Oh please kiss me again.”  
  
Miranda did just that. It would be hours before they separated again.  
  
***  
  
The plot of the Five Sisters was initiated on Sunday afternoon. Cynthia called Danielle in her role as the woman’s lawyer and said that they must meet to discuss the lawsuit at her office. Danielle arrived fifteen minutes late to the appointment, just as Cynthia had anticipated, so the timing of the phone call she knew was coming had allowed for that delay.  
  
Danielle came into the office, her demeanor haughty, her intention obviously to punish her lawyer/plaything for not being available to her during the last few days. Cynthia braced herself and handed Danielle a folder. “What's this?” The difficult woman demanded.  
  
“My recommendations of law firms to take your case,” Cynthia replied. “I find myself unable to continue as your lawyer. The partners in this firm have made it quite clear that if I am to do so, it is without either their blessing or the resources of this firm.  
  
“And you care more about what they want than you do about our relationship!” Danielle accused.  
  
“That's not true,” Cynthia responded, “You know I love you, but my bosses have cited a conflict of interest because of Roger Hoskins' relationship with this firm. If I go before a judge and plead this case, my firm will bring the possible conflict of interest up. Since Mr. Hoskins has not given his permission for the firm to handle both sides, the judge might decide to dismiss me as your counsel during the proceedings. Obviously, that would hurt your position. You'd have to scramble for a new lawyer, and heaven help you if the judge doesn’t grant a continuance for you to get one. This way you'll have a lawyer who can concentrate on the lawsuit without the threat of bias or distractions,” she continued in her most reasonable tone of voice. At that moment the telephone rang. Cynthia reached over and answered it. “Cynthia Parnell...Oh yes, Ms. Freedman, Mr. Trent told me you'd be calling. Could you hold for just a moment, please?” She glanced up at Danielle. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Danielle?” she asked. “It's an important call from a new client.”  
  
Danielle left the office but stopped immediately outside the door and eavesdropped on the end of the conversation she could hear.  
  
“Yes, Ms. Freedman, I went over your contract with Elias-Clarke as instructed. I don't think that there is any question about your final authority in the matter.” Cynthia said to a giggling Lily, who was on the other end of the line. The lawyer paused for a long moment, as if listening to a reply. “Well, if Miranda Priestly doesn't like that you've been placed in the position to oversee the operations of _Runway_ , that's her problem. Your contract with the Board of Directors is quite specific on the matter. You have final say on all matters having to do with that publication's operations.” Another brief pause, “Very well. Good-bye.” Cynthia hung up the phone and rose, walking to her office door. She got there just in time to see Danielle sit down in one of the waiting room chairs and pretend to be reading a magazine.  
  
“So who was that? “ Danielle asked, too casually.  
  
“Oh, just some new wunderkind in the publishing field,” Cynthia responded easily. “She's landed a plum position with one of the big magazine publishers and wanted to clarify some of the details of her contract. Want to get a late lunch? I'm starving.”  
  
“No,” Danielle replied quickly. “No. I have some things to do this afternoon. Maybe we can get together later this week after I find a new lawyer.” With that Danielle hurriedly left the office.  
  
***   
  
Sunday evening found Lily in the company of Millicent Darling in the lobby of a five-star luxury high-rise apartment building on the upper East Side of Manhattan. Millicent spoke briefly to the concierge and then headed for the elevator. Lily followed. “What are we doing here, Millicent?” she asked softly, the atmosphere of the place seeming the same as a library, some place that you simply did not disturb the silence. Millicent smiled, the first one Lily believed she'd ever seen from the girl.  
  
“I've figured out what I can offer the Sisterhood. How I can help,” the girl said excitedly, stepping in the elevator. She opened her purse and rummaged around inside it, withdrawing a security card. She ran the card into the recessed card reader and pressed the button for the top floor. The elevator doors closed, and the elevator car began its journey upward.  
  
“So, who are we here to see?” Lily asked curiously.  
  
“Nobody silly,” Millicent giggled. “We're here to see your new apartment.”  
  
“Millicent,” Lily said, eyes goggling, “There's no way I could afford this building. There's no way all of us together could afford this building.”  
  
Millicent giggled again. “Oh, I can,” she replied. “I own it. Along with the rest of this block. Danielle likes nice things. When she sees that you live in the penthouse of this building and drive a Bentley, she's just going to know that you'll be able to give her all sorts of nice things.”  
“Bentley?” Lily nearly screeched. “What Bentley?”  
  
“The top-of-the-line Continental GTC convertible that's being delivered to the art gallery you work at as we speak,” Millicent answered innocently. “It's sort of green. They said it's a shade of black, but it's not. It's a really dark green. I hope green's okay. I didn't know what your favorite color was.”  
  
“You've had a Bentley delivered to the gallery in my name?” Lily asked, her voice on the edge of hysteria. “Millicent, for the love of God, just how much money do you have?”  
  
Millicent shrugged as the elevator doors opened to a luxurious, short hallway leading to the massive carved doors that opened to the penthouse. “I've never really thought about it.” she said, making the short walk to the penthouse entrance. “I own about six square city blocks of central Manhattan. More in Queens and the Bronx. I also have properties in Long Island, Boston, Dallas, and L.A.,” she answered simply, as if the information was of no consequence whatsoever. “Daddy had a thing for buying and selling properties, but he liked buying better than selling.” She used the security card again in the key slot, and the massive carved doors opened as if of their own accord. Millicent led the way into the amazing foyer of the penthouse. “You should walk around and familiarize yourself with the place. You're going to be living here after all.”  
  
Lily wandered in and just stared from her position in the foyer at the sunken living room, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a view of the city that would cost a fortune in rent even if the place were a dump. In a daze and with mouth agape she wandered around, looking at the amazing apartment and its magnificent furnishings. “My God! This place is.....I don't have the words...” she said, staring at a painting on the wall and realizing that she was looking at an original Picasso.  
  
Millicent giggled again. “Did I mention the bank account?” she asked softly, a wicked and self-satisfied smile playing on her face.  
  
Lily's head snapped around. “What bank account?”  
  
Millicent continued to smile “Well, you're supposed to be really well-off, aren't you? I mean if you want to hook Danielle, you’ll need to spend money on her....lots of money...”  
  
***   
  
Monday morning found Natalie Strothers at her desk at her public relations firm. She had known for some time that Danielle had a source inside her business. She had learned about the leak from reading Danielle's column. Danielle would regularly be ahead of the curve on knowing which designer this or that celebrity who Natalie's firm represented would be wearing to upcoming functions.  
  
From selectively passing hot tidbits of information to carefully monitored groups of employees, Natalie had recently identified the mole as an intern who, when confronted, tearfully had admitted his culpability. He had told Natalie that Danielle was paying him cash for inside information and that he desperately needed the money to manage his college expenses. Natalie had told him that she'd deal with him later and had thrown him out of her office. She had decided that she would let him sweat a while and then forgive him rather than firing him and informing his university internship placement program of his unethical behavior. She had decided this primarily because she had long ago admitted to herself that she had done some pretty stupid things at his age. Now she was glad she hadn't fired him.  
  
She summoned him to her office early in the morning. She could tell that he was certain the axe was about to fall. She smiled at him and said, “How would you like to be a paid employee rather than an unpaid intern?”  
  
He looked at her, surprised. “I thought you'd likely fire me,” he almost whispered.  
  
Natalie nodded. “I thought about it, but I believe in second chances. Now, I need you to do something for me, no questions asked.”  
  
The intern nodded cautiously

.Natalie held up a client file folder. Each such folder held everything the firm knew about a client—a wealth of personal information about the individuals the firm represented Including everything from how much money they made in a year to what kinds of vices they engaged in that might cause problems in the press and that the firm might need to “spin” at a moment's notice. “I want you to sell this folder to Danielle. I want you to sell it for a good deal of money. The information in this folder will be quite valuable to her,” she stated, not taking her eyes off the young man standing in front of her desk.  
  
“I thought you didn't want me to do that anymore,” he said softly, wanting to make sure that this wasn't some kind of test that he might fail if he didn't protest. A real job in his chosen field while still in school would go a long way toward securing his future, and he very badly wanted it.  
  
Natalie shook her head. “I want her to have this particular information, and I want plausible deniability. She has to believe that it came into her hands without my involvement,” she answered.  
  
The intern wasn't stupid; he nodded his understanding. “I haven't been in touch with her since you found out that I was the one selling her information. It's been over two weeks, and she's always suspicious. She always asks how I came by the information. What do I tell her?” he asked, taking the file from her hand.  
  
Natalie smiled. “Tell her the truth. You've been promoted to be the manager of the client file room. You no longer have to rely on minor bits and pieces because now you have access to the master files. You saw this file, realized it's connection to the fashion industry, and thought she might be interested. But giving her a client file is higher risk than the bits and pieces you were selling her before. Now that you have an actual job with the firm you have more to lose. Consequently, your price has gone up.”  
  
He shook his head. “She won't pay much more than she was. She's tightfisted with a dollar,” he replied.  
  
Natalie chuckled. “Show her the first page of that file and then double whatever you were thinking of asking for it. She'll pay.” she said assuredly.  
  
***   
  
Danielle Gold sat in her condo reading the file she had purchased from her informant in Natalie Strothers's public relations agency. The young twerp had finally wised up. He'd actually charged her enough to make her blanch, but the information was worth every penny. According to the file, Lily Freedman was a wunderkind in the publishing field. Someone with a talent for cutting costs to the bone while maintaining excellence in the end product. The woman had recently landed a job as the overseer of one Miranda Priestly. The woman had complete discretion at _Runway_ magazine and was answerable only to the Board of Directors. Not even the corporation's CEO could tell her how to run the magazine.  
  
The file indicated that, while she was a commanding presence in the business realm, in her personal life she was an absolute disaster. She was a closeted lesbian who always seemed to choose partners who were bad for her. It noted that Lily had had a number of disastrous short-term love affairs where she gave her all and was then left heartbroken. It even indicated a number of short-term stays in a private mental hospital after the break-ups. In the section of the file on items that might have to, at some future date, be spun for the press were notes about her mental state, discussing her personal insecurities and her nearly pathological need to be involved in a relationship. It stated that she had a history of doing “inappropriate” things when becoming involved with someone. Inappropriate things like extremely expensive gifts while wooing the object of her affection. While in a “relationship,” she was completely wrapped around the finger of whatever woman she was with, spending obscene amounts on her “partner.” She would give even more extremely expensive gifts while trying to hold on to her lover when the relationship was over. Then there were the incidents of what were effectively blackmail payments to keep her ex-lovers quiet. For someone like Danielle, this information was like catnip to a cat.  
  
The best thing of all was a sticky note in Natalie's handwriting revealing that Ms. Freedman would be attending a gallery opening in the evening the day after tomorrow. A perfect place for Danielle to introduce herself to her next meal ticket.  
  
***   
  
Lily had called Andy on Monday at lunchtime and asked if they could meet for drinks. Lily had said she needed a little favor and that she didn't want to discuss it over the phone. Andy, lacking inspiration for the column she was working on, agreed to meet with Lily just before dinnertime. That would give them an hour or two before Miranda quit work for the day. Miranda had invited Andy to dinner, and the bar where Lily and she were to meet was closer to the Elias-Clarke building than her apartment. Before leaving to meet Lily, Andy sent Miranda a quick e-mail explaining that she was going to have a drink with a friend and telling her where she'd be.  
  
***   
  
“You did WHAT?!” Andy exclaimed, her voice rising.  
  
Lily shrugged, the index finger of her right hand nervously sliding around the rim of her glass of white wine. “Well, we’ve sort of told Danielle Gold that I'm an executive with Elias-Clarke Publishing. A hungry wunderkind, an up-and-comer who's been given a watchdog position over _Runway_ magazine. Someone who has the pull to be able to tell Miranda Priestly what to do.”  
  
Andy took a long pull from her drink and then shook her head. “Sort of told...How do you sort of tell somebody something like that?!” Andy demanded emphatically.  
  
Lily smiled a cunning, little smile. “A piece at a time and coming from different sources. It's more believable that way.”  
  
Andy rubbed her temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Jesus, Lily, there are less painful ways to commit suicide than by doing something that is going to garner Miranda Priestly's negative attention! Why don't you just go jump off the Empire State Building?!”  
  
“Negative attention, Andrea?” Said a cool, familiar voice from behind her. “And, pray tell, what precisely is going to elicit my reacting in such a manner?”  
  
Andy froze, looking into Lily's wide eyes. The cafe au lait skin-toned woman looked very much to Andy like the deer caught in the headlights the night she and her father had had an unfortunate run-in with the four-legged beast on a country road. The car had been totaled, and the deer hadn't fared as well as the car. Then Lily's eyes dropped to Andy. Andy shrugged, “I told you I was seeing someone, and I told you I was being picked up here so we could go to dinner...”  
  
“You didn't tell me it was Miranda Priestly!” Lily hissed quietly as Miranda's shadow fell over her.  
  
“Will one of you explain what is going on, or must I guess?” Miranda demanded in her compelling, quiet way.  
  
Andy glanced at Lily and then looked at Miranda. She looked back at Lily and shook her head. “I love you, Lily, but I want no part in this. I've got too much to lose. You explain it to her.”  
  
Obviously terrified by the imposing figure staring down at her, Lily began to speak quietly, confessing all to the implacable Devil in Heels.  
  
Andy and Miranda listened while the plot of the Five Sisters, the identities of the conspirators, and what they hoped to accomplish had been laid out on the table. Lily had been kind enough to repeatedly stress that Andy had no part in the plot and hadn't even known about its existence until just moments before Miranda’s arrival. Andy watched Miranda narrow her eyes and purse her lips after Lily fell silent.  
  
“I will have all five of you in my office at Elias-Clarke in thirty minutes’ time,” she said in her deadly quiet, _Runway_ voice. She glanced at Andy. “I'm afraid I'll have to postpone my taking you to dinner, Andrea,” she continued. “But this requires my immediate attention. May I call on you later at your apartment?”  
  
“Of course, Miranda,” Andy answered, glancing nervously between the fashion icon and her best friend. “I understand why you're upset,” she continued, “but please don't be too hard on them. I can see why people want to get back at Danielle. You know I suspect her of being the one who tried to sabotage my interview with you.”  
  
Miranda nodded. “I'll do my best to behave civilly,” she replied and kissed Andrea on both cheeks. Miranda glanced at Lily. “Thirty minutes,” she said ominously and turned, sweeping from the bar.  
  
Lily swallowed hard and looked at Andy, “I'm really screwed, aren't I?”  
  
Andy nodded. “Pretty much well and totally screwed.”  
  
Lily reached for her cell phone to make the necessary calls.  
  
***  
  
The Five Sisters met in a nervous rush in the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building and rode the elevator to Miranda Priestly's office on the eleventh floor together. Karen was pale as Lily held her hand. Lily knew that since Miranda was a titan in the publishing field, she was likely in a position to be of the greatest risk to her new love. Natalie Strothers paced the crowded confines of the elevator like a caged animal and kept mumbling, “Why did I let you three talk me into this?! God! The Ice Queen will ruin all of us!” Cynthia was silent and withdrawn, and Lily noticed Millicent watching the lawyer worriedly before taking the silent woman's hand and giving it a squeeze. Somehow Millicent seemed to be the only one who was unperturbed by the upcoming meeting with the feared and fabled Dragon Lady.  
  
The elevator doors opened, and the Five Sisters were met by a harried-looking redhead. “I'm Emily Charlton, Miranda's first assistant,” she introduced herself while casting a worried glance at her watch. “You are three minutes late! Hurry!” She led the way into the executive suite and into the dragon's lair.  
  
The Sisters formed a ragged semicircle in front of the desk where Miranda sat looking at photographs with a magnifying glass. She didn't look up as she said, “Emily, close the door on your way out.” The sound of the door latching shut seemed very loud in the office as the gathered Sisterhood waited with bated breath for the Devil in Heels to pronounce judgment and ruin them.  
  
Miranda rose silently from her desk and walked over to a credenza, opening a cabinet to reveal a bar. She poured herself a scotch, neat, and glanced over her shoulder at the gathered women. “Help yourselves to a drink,” she said, returning to her desk and taking her seat behind it.  
  
Natalie made straight for the bar and poured herself a stiff drink. Millicent whispered something to Cynthia, and Cynthia nodded. Millicent let go of Cynthia's hand and moved to the bar, fixing a vodka on the rocks and opening a can of ginger ale. She returned to the group and handed Cynthia the vodka. Karen stood frozen, and Lily feared that the woman was falling into a depression, now certain her career was over. Lily looked at the Ice Queen who sat quite still in her chair, as if waiting for something.  
  
After an interminable moment of silence Miranda spoke, her voice deadly quiet. “As I understand it, the five of you intend to put Danielle in her place. And you intend to do so by suggesting to her that this young woman,” indicating Lily, “has been given control of my magazine and can therefore dictate to me what actions I may take.”  
  
Lily felt Karen move forward, and she took a step too so she could keep her arm protectively intertwined with the newspaper editor's arm. “Ms. Priestly,” Karen said, “The plan is mine; please don't take your anger out on my friends.”  
  
Cynthia was surprised when Millicent stepped forward. “To hell with that,” the mousey young woman exclaimed vehemently. “All for one and one for all!”  
  
Natalie's eyes went wide, and she swallowed another large gulp of her drink. Cynthia stepped forward beside Millicent and slipped her hand into the young woman's. She smiled at the girl beside her and then turned to Miranda. “I'm with Milli.” she said quietly.  
  
Miranda smiled a vulpine smile. “You all misunderstand my intentions. If I was going to castigate you for this plot of yours, I never would have offered you a drink. Ms. Gold has been a minor annoyance to me for some time. Recently, however, she stepped over the line when she attempted to derail my interview with Andrea Sachs. She slandered Andrea, trying to make me believe that she would be spending the night with you, Karen. May I call you Karen?”  
  
Karen nodded, apparently speechless. Miranda continued speaking. “I would appreciate it if all of you would address me as Miranda if we are to be working together on this little project.  
  
“Working together!?” Lily exclaimed.  
  
“Yes,” Miranda replied, her eyes meeting the eyes of each of the Five Sisters. “I brought you all here so we can discuss how I can best assist in your endeavor....”


	10. Chapter 10

Monday October 5 th 2009 (continued)

The downstairs door buzzer sounded in Andy's apartment at just after nine P.M. Andy hurried down to answer it. Opening the door she found Miranda standing there flanked by two men who were wearing what appeared to be kitchen whites. One was laden down with trays containing covered dishes and the other some kind of large insulated containers. Andy raised a curious eyebrow. Miranda stepped forward. “I was unable to take you to dinner as I had wished to,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss Andrea's cheek. “So I arranged for some takeout.”

Andy looked at the stainless steel, covered platters and noted a third man clad in a tuxedo carrying a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and two crystal glasses. “Ahhhh, Miranda?” Andy said. “Take-out comes in little cardboard containers.”

“Not from _Per Se_ it doesn't,” Miranda murmured in reply. “Will you lead the way?”

“ _Per Se!”_ Andy exclaimed, recognizing the name of one of Manhattan's highest rated four-star restaurants. “I've wanted to go there. Everyone says wonderful things about their tasting menu,” she continued excitedly as she led the way up the stairs to her third floor walk-up apartment. She immediately noticed that Miranda's demeanor was different this evening. The woman moved differently, with a regal elegance wrapped in her Ice Queen persona. She viewed the woman she had met on the red carpet at the MoMA event a few weeks ago. A delicious shiver ran down Andy's spine. This woman owned the very world around her, and Andy was becoming involved with her.

“Well, it's a fortunate thing then that I've brought the tasting menu to you,” Miranda replied with aplomb as she followed with her retinue directly behind her.

Andy opened the door to her apartment and the Icon stepped around her to enter the space that Andy inhabited. The Devil in Heels glanced around curiously and didn't have to say a word to the staff members from the restaurant. They knew what their jobs were and who they were contracted to. Andy watched her small bistro dining table quickly stripped of everything on it and redressed in a fine linen tablecloth with a Battenburg lace cloth draped over it. Fine china came out of one of the containers that one of the men carried and then sterling silver flatware. The man with the bottle of wine opened it expertly and poured a taste for the Dragon Lady to approve. The Ice Queen accepted the glass and sipped, then gave the barest of nods to the Sommelier, who quickly filled both glasses and returned the wine bottle to the ice bucket. The platters of gourmet food were uncovered and placed on the table. After finishing their duties, the servers looked to the Icon for her approval of their services. Again, the slightest tilt of her head was all she deigned to reply and, dismissed, the wait staff quickly took their leave.

Now that it was only the two of them alone in the apartment, Andy watched in amazement as in a few brief moments the Ice Queen melted and became just the woman, Miranda. Andy smiled across the small food-laden table. “I don't think I'll ever get tired of that,” she offered softly.

“Tired of what?” Miranda asked, reaching for her wineglass.

“Seeing you go from being La Priestly to being just Miranda,” Andy answered quietly.

Miranda looked up at the young woman she had become so enamored of. “Only you and my children see this me, Andrea. The real me as it were, with all my flaws and insecurities...”

Andy sighed happily. “I can't think of a greater privilege you could allow me, Miranda,” Andy breathed, reaching across the table and brushing the back of the white-haired woman's hand.

Andy felt Miranda shiver as her warm hand caressed the older woman's cool one. The devil took Andy, and she smiled wickedly. “So, Miranda, is this our first date, or does our night at _Le Bernardin_ count?”

Miranda glanced up into the mischievously twinkling eyes and the small, wicked smile and felt her mouth go dry. “I like to think our time at _Le Bernardin was_ more than just a work encounter,” she almost stammered as the caress on the back of her hand took on a salacious quality. “Why?” she asked.

“Because,” Andrea almost whispered across the table, “that makes our next date our third, and I'm hoping that the three date rule applies. Because I can't wait to get you into bed and make you moan my name.” She speared a piece of sour apple that was part of the appetizer and brought it to her lips, sensuously biting into it while never losing intimate eye contact with her companion.

Miranda Priestly, Dragon Lady, Ice Queen, Fashion Icon, swallowed hard, and, for the first time in her life, suddenly wondered if she might be out of her league.

***

Tuesday, October 6 th 2009

Lily was nervous. It was her first night playing the role of a fictitious powerhouse executive at Elias-Clarke. In support of the illusion she and the Sisterhood were weaving, she was wrapped in a dress worth several thousand dollars that Miranda had selected for her from the famed Closet and had pronounced mouth-watering. Karen had certainly agreed with that assessment, and Lily dearly wished that she was wearing the couture for the Style Editor whom she realized she was falling for in a big way. She was standing, sipping Champagne in the _Adelson Galleries,_ one of the premier art galleries in New York City. The gallery management was already fawning over her because she had come personally recommended by the fashion goddess and patron of the arts, Miranda Priestly. The plan tonight was both simple and critical—she would attract Danielle Gold's attention by almost negligently purchasing one of the most expensive pieces in the gallery and then casually instructing that it be delivered to an auction house to be donated for a charity auction.

Lily had, during the planning of this exercise, expressed concern that to make the scam they were perpetrating believable would require her to sleep with Danielle, which she was unwilling to do. The Sisters that had been involved with Danielle assured her that the situation was easily handled. All Lily needed to do was become the aggressor sexually. If Danielle knew that the faux Lily wanted to sleep with her, Danielle would hold out, playing hard to get in order to string Lily's fictitious persona along and better gain control and manipulate her. In other words if Lily pretended to want Danielle, Danielle wouldn't give it up. This made Lily feel better because she was fairly certain that the only person she wanted to sleep with was Karen, and although committed to the plan to punish Danielle, she was far more in favor of the idea of just physically kicking the woman's ass rather than prostituting herself to accomplish the goals of the Six Sisters.

It took all of ten minutes of leisurely moving from painting to painting before she noticed Danielle circling her like a shark and checking her out. It was an interesting sensation for Lily. She had thought that she'd be too nervous to seem relaxed, but being in a gallery show that she wouldn't have rated an invitation to, being only a lowly gallery employee, here she was looking at art which she likely otherwise wouldn't have been able to see. On top of that, the gallery's owners were obsequiously seeing to her every perceived desire, much like she tried to do when she thought she had a potential buyer on the hook. So she simply allowed the part of her mind that so loved art to take the forefront. A passion that closed everything else out. Ten more minutes passed and Lily realized that her outward demeanor likely presented exactly what was needed, an introverted, socially awkward woman of substance, Danielle's preferred prey.

Lily lost herself in the vibrant color changes of an impressionistic female nude. Black running to brown running to yellow running to cream. The piece was entitled _All Women and No Woman_ and, in Lily's opinion, it captured the essence of all that was female. The painting was by Lynne Ong, one of the most prominent impressionist painters in the UK and a noted up-and-comer in the city. The piece of art in question was one that Lily herself would dearly love to own. It spoke to her on a very basic level. She became aware of a shadow falling across her. A subtle sound from immediately behind her and just to one side indicated a question. She reluctantly tore her eyes away from the painting, ready to chastise anyone that would dare interrupt her communion with the piece she was viewing. Danielle's smile was pure sex. “I like it,” the woman offered, then her tone turned suggestive. “But then again, I've always been fond of female nudes.”

Lily's mind snapped to the part she was supposed to be playing and, after her eyes quickly traveled up and down Danielle's form, found a space on the floor between them and stared at it as if it were fascinating. “I like the artist,” she offered quietly. “She expresses herself well through the use of color.”

Danielle turned and randomly captured two drinks from a waiter who was carrying them past where Lily and she were standing. Handing one to Lily she said, “You express yourself well through color, too. You're blushing.”

Lily allowed her eyes to wander the gallery, to look anywhere but at Danielle, as she had seen Millicent do at the restaurant. She returned her eyes to the floor between herself and Danielle and then raised them to Danielle's face. “Are you hitting on me?” she asked softly, allowing a small tremor in her voice.

Danielle smiled a smug little smile. “Shouldn't I be? You're prettier than any picture in this place, and I don't see a ring on your finger. No one seems to be on your arm. If my attentions are unwelcome, tell me, and I'll go away,” she offered smoothly.

“No!” Lily replied a bit too excitedly, “No, please,” she continued more circumspectly, casting her eyes away from her companion and around the room. The plan was working perfectly so far. Her earlier concerns were quickly fading, and she was beginning to relish playing her part. This woman was trying to ruin Karen's life. To take away the job Karen had worked hard for and loved. Lily offered a timorous smile and focused, bringing her eyes back to Danielle. _You're going down, Bitch,_ she thought to herself as she continued the convoluted dance of first encounters.

***

Miranda arrived at the gallery a little ahead of schedule and took a few moments in the back of the car to ready herself for the part she would play. The little drama the Six Sisters had co-authored was an intricate and subtle piece. All had agreed early on that they wanted to interact with Danielle in Lily's presence. All wanted to play their part in making Danielle believe what they wanted her to believe. The staged public encounters between the different Sisters and the character Lily was playing were all geared to make that happen. Miranda, however, had arranged things so that when Danielle went public and the story broke in the press, she would end up looking like a fool who would never have any credibility in the media again. The brilliance of the thing was that if all went according to plan, the interactions among the Sisters could be explained simply to the media's satisfaction.

The plotters had decided to stay as close to the truth as possible without ever acknowledging that they had arranged Danielle's downfall. Lily's involvement was the easiest to explain. Lily was, after all, the best friend of Miranda's new girlfriend. Miranda had no intention of keeping her and Andrea's relationship a secret; she already wanted to crow to the world about her good fortune. The relationship between Miranda and Lily was already slightly tense because of Lily's concerns over the relative differences between Miranda's and her friend's ages, the fact that Miranda was the mother of prepubescent twins, and the two women's perceived differences in social standing. Lily had been straight up with Miranda in an early, private conversation, and Miranda had found the young woman's directness, candor, and concern for her best friend's welfare refreshing. Miranda had high hopes that when Lily saw that she was in earnest about her intentions regarding Andrea that she and Lily would one day be close friends. The slight and quite real tension between the two women would add to the flavor of their encounters, making them appear more realistic. When the story broke in the press, any public conflict reported between the two of them would be explained as them trying to negotiate the treacherous waters around a best friend and a new girlfriend trying to find common ground.

Lily was dating Karen, so for the general public, that relationship was easily explainable. It was only natural that they would encounter each other in public. The encounter Miranda had scripted between the two women for Danielle's benefit would make Danielle think that the green-eyed monster of jealousy was possessing Lily in regard to Danielle's ex. All of the Six Sisters had agreed that such a display would encourage Danielle to use that jealousy to push the envelope in trying to manipulate the faux-Lily. Four of the Sisters had a side betting pool running on whether or not the scripted encounter would encourage Danielle to drop the law suit against Karen and _The_ _Times_ and attempt to bring Karen back into her circle in order to use the jealousy she perceived in Lily to a greater extent.

Millicent had already contracted and paid both Natalie's and Cynthia's firms in Lily's name. After all, when the press broke the news, an up-and-coming, young professional in the arts in a place like Manhattan would need both someone to handle her public relations and a lawyer to handle her business affairs. It was only sensible that Lily would hire people to take those jobs on her behalf. In the make-believe world they were introducing Danielle to, Natalie and Cynthia were now professional confidantes of the new power behind _Runway_ magazine. The Sisters were betting that when Danielle discovered the connections, she would try to tap both of them for information.  
  
Natalie insisted that there was no need to script an encounter for her. She was confident that Danielle would come to a point where she would need information, and in that need Natalie was willing to bet that Danielle would approach her for it.  
  
Cynthia would play the Lawyer and encounter Lily in Danielle's presence under the guise of a professional visit, where she would warn Lily against Danielle's machinations. Lily would react with jealousy to make Danielle think Lily was in love with her. This, the Six Sisters reasoned, would speed events along to where Danielle would over step and the Sisters would bring the curtain down on the woman that had injured them.

Millicent was really the only lose end that Miranda couldn't figure out a role for in the farce they were creating. The fact that Milli was, to this point, the equivalent of a hermit as far as the New York social scene was concerned, complicated matters. Miranda had racked her brain and hadn't been able to come up with anything that wouldn't seem contrived and perhaps alert Danielle, who the others' had informed her was paranoid begin with, that there was some kind of plot afoot.

Cynthia and Millicent had spent an evening drinking wine together and brainstorming, but they too had failed to come up with anything new. Millicent had finally come to a decision that she would not engage with Danielle in public as the other sister's were doing. She would instead, be the first to confront Danielle the night of the big reveal. She had confided to them her hope that her transformation from ugly duckling to beautiful swan would come as a shock to the woman who had hurt her so badly.

When things came to light, Lily's encounters with Millicent would be simply business. Millicent would be engaged in buying art from the gallery Lily worked for, and Lily would be her preferred salesperson. To accomplish this Millicent had started haunting the gallery where Lily worked when Lily was there and had already spent enough that the owner of the gallery was thrilled, and Lily's commission check for the month was going to be larger than any he'd ever written for another employee.

When Lily had expressed concern about the amount that Millicent was spending, Millicent had pooh-poohed her worries, explaining that she had more money than she could ever spend. There were many worthy non-profit organizations that she supported, she had explained, that would either use the donated art to decorate their office walls or would auction the pieces off to increase their revenues using the proceeds to continue their good works. Either way the organizations benefited. Such expenditures also served Milli's purposes. It allowed her to play her part in the Six Sisters’ little drama, she explained, and if by contributing something as meaningless as money was to her allowed her to feel that she had truly had an active hand in bringing Danielle down, who was anyone to argue?

Miranda exited the back of her town car and move at a regal pace toward the doors of the Gallery. _Let the games begin,_ she thought to herself, passing through the portal and into the building.

***

Lily glanced up and noticed Milli covertly watching her and Danielle from the upper balcony of the gallery. Lily had to look twice to make sure it was Milli, so much had the young woman changed in the last few days. Where before a frumpily dressed, ill-groomed girl had been now stood a fashionably dressed young woman with her hair cut in a short bob hair style that flattered the shape of her face. Lily was virtually certain that should Danielle happen to glance at the young woman standing at the rail of the balcony, she'd look right by her without even recognizing her.

Danielle continued to drone on with clever and witty pick-up repartee, and Lily's heart sped up when she felt the air in the room change. She knew that the first scene the Sisterhood had scripted was about to be played out. She had positioned herself with her back to the door Miranda would enter and would move to engage Danielle, delivering one of the social castigations she was so expert at. Then...Then the play was to begin.

Danielle's line of double entendres suddenly dried up, and Lily, who had been imitating Milli's habit of casting her eyes about to avoid looking at anyone engaging her in an intimate conversation, dared a glance at her companion. Danielle was pale, and her breathing had become shallow. Miranda must have been cutting an impressive figure while crossing the room toward them because from Danielle's face one might think that God himself was approaching an unrepentant sinner on Judgment Day.

“Ah, Danielle,” Miranda said, her tone sickly sweet. She stepped past Lily as if not noticing her and air-kissed Danielle's cheeks. “I haven't seen any articles with your by-line recently. Have you come to your senses and started writing something you're knowledgeable about?” Miranda said, tone and delivery executing her barb with the skill of a surgeon.

Writing cutting comments aimed at _the_ Miranda Priestly must have been very different from facing the woman in the real world because Danielle stammered instead of responding. Lily waited a beat, enjoying the woman's discomfort because of what she was putting Karen through. Then Lily turned her head and addressed the white-haired Icon. “I don't think that was very nice, Miranda,” she said, her demeanor completely different than the unsure ingenue she had presented to Danielle. She and Miranda had worked together on Lily's version of a Dragon Lady persona, and Danielle saw this aspect for the first time. “I think you owe this woman an apology.” Lily continued, her tone firm and commanding.

“Lily,” Miranda said breathily, just a beat of hesitation and uncertainty in her voice. Lily said nothing, her eyes coolly on the fashion Icon. Even though the room was full of people and many of them, smelling blood in the water in a public meeting between Miranda and Danielle, were closely watching the exchange, Miranda's performance was so well-crafted that without missing a beat the dominant Ice Queen of the fashion industry figuratively rolled on her belly and bared her throat before Lily. Danielle got the full effect of Miranda's performance, and no one else in the room was the wiser as to what had happened in their circle of conversation.

Miranda turned to Danielle. “My apologies if I offended you, Danielle,” she offered, her delivery a masterful mix of reluctance, nervousness and impotent anger. A woman having her arm twisted into doing something she didn't want to do. “It's just I hadn't seen your name on the fashion column lately, and I'd wondered what had happened to you,” she concluded.

Danielle looked at Miranda, surprised. What she'd read in the public relation's file was apparently understated as far as the power the young woman before her wielded at _Runway_. Danielle immediately decided she would exploit this chance and plant seeds in the mind of the young woman she was here to seduce. “I'm not entirely happy at _The Times,”_ she offered haughtily. I'm in the process of expanding my professional horizons. Perhaps looking for a position in a magazine where the focus is more about fashion than what the pitiful little column at _The Times_ allows me to do.”

Miranda, doing an exquisite job of playing the beaten cur, quickly took her leave and, without looking at so much as a single painting or talking to anyone else, left the gallery. Lily wondered why the woman hadn't gone into the theater, so subtle and nuanced was her performance.

Danielle again slipped into a masterful dialog of come-ons and double entendres, obviously trying to seduce Lily. Lily, being a self-assured young woman, found the experience leaving her feeling like she needed a shower. She let her mind wander for a moment and realized that the situation she was in made her sad. Thoughts of how Karen had at one time been so alone that she had found this bitch's words and attention attractive enough to take her home and fallen for her made Lily feel a little ill. Lily resolved in that moment that as soon as this was over, she was going to show Karen what being loved by someone who really cared for her and didn't have any other agenda was all about. Lily snapped her mind back to the job at hand. The sooner she helped the Sisterhood con Danielle into making a serious mistake, the sooner she could get on to the really important work. The work of showing Karen what it was to be truly loved.

“So,” Danielle said slyly, her demeanor telegraphing that she believed she was in complete control of this situation. “What say we get out of here and go to your place?”

***

Millicent watched Lily and Danielle from her place on the upper balcony as Cynthia cautiously joined her at the railing. The planned encounters with Danielle and the faux-Lily would be spread out over several weeks so as not to make the target of their con suspicious. Millicent looked up and smiled timidly at the woman beside her. “They're off together, just like we planned,” she said to the lawyer.

Cynthia nodded and glanced at Milli. “I like the new clothes and your hair... You had it done like I suggested...”

Milli looked down and blushed. “Do you really like it?” she asked softly. “Miranda helped me pick some things out she thought I'd look nice in.” She reached up and brushed back her short hair. “And when you suggested this hair style, I just had to try it. I made an appointment at a salon that same day.”

Cynthia nodded, her mouth going a bit dry. Where there had been a broken girl-child now there was a young woman. The Sisterhood had taken her in, and now that she had a place to belong, she seemed to be blossoming overnight. “Have you had dinner?” Cynthia asked. “I haven't, and I'm starving. Would you like to maybe go out to dinner with me?”

“Oh, yes,” Milli breathed. “I'd like that, Cynthia. I'd like to do that a lot. I have one little thing I need to do here, and then we can go.”

***

Lily was amazed. The women of the Sisterhood had been completely correct. All it had taken was for her to suggestively place her hand on Danielle's leg while in the car and the woman's demeanor had changed completely. Whereas before she had been aggressively moving to seduce Lily and apparently intending to bed her as soon as they got to Lily's apartment, now she was more reserved. The flow of dialog had moved from come-ons to more restrained, romantic first date conversation.

Lily watched Danielle as they rode up the elevator to the penthouse. Danielle flushed with anticipation when she saw where they were going. It was as if the woman was sexually excited by the prospect of the material things she could obtain from a woman as wealthy as the one Lily was portraying.

When sharing a glass of champagne in “Lily’s” penthouse, Danielle softly said, “I don't think I've ever been more attracted to another woman. I want you. I want you badly, and I think you want me, too. But I don't want to rush things. I'm not looking for a fling. I'm looking for a soul-mate--someone I can settle down with and love for the rest of my life .” Lily chuckled inside. It was exactly the kind of line that the other Sisters had predicted Danielle would offer at this point. Exactly the kind of line that the faux-Lily would be desperate to hear. _Gotcha_ , Lily thought.

***

Friday, October 9 th , 2009

Where Miranda had thought the words in any one of Andrea's columns a balm to her often troubled soul, she was not prepared for the effect of the younger woman's presence in her life. Several days had passed where seeing Andrea was simply impossible. The rigors of preparations for the _Runway_ delegation leaving for Paris, now less than a week off, were devouring virtually all of her waking hours. Still Miranda found time to muse that she was quite lost in love with the younger woman. Even after only two dates, she was already doing unthinkable things. She smiled much of the time and said “please” when dealing with staff. She restlessly prowled the Closet each day looking for things that Andrea would look good in. She would note that the models she used in photo shoots for _Runway_ all seemed to be missing something, and then she’d realize that what she was looking for was Andrea's womanly curves. Miranda found herself making excuses to call Andrea just so she could hear the woman's laughing voice. Andrea never allowed Miranda's calls to go to voice mail. She was never too busy to talk to Miranda. For this small kindness, Miranda felt truly blessed.

Miranda's time was at a premium, but that notwithstanding she was intent on having her third date with Andrea. She shivered deliciously as she remembered Andrea's words about hoping that the third date rule applied. Her body yearned for the touch of the young woman in ways she had not experienced in a very long time. She resolved that there would be time for them to be together before Paris. She called Emily and told her to clear Sunday's schedule.

***

Three days had passed and Lily had been on one additional date with Danielle since she had taken the woman to the penthouse and they had conversed on the phone several times. Lily had begun to feel as if she were a character working undercover in a spy or police drama. She had a second cell phone now that only Danielle and the members of the Sisterhood had the telephone number to. When that number rang, it was the faux-Lily who answered. Miranda had also arranged that any call for Lily that came into the _Runway_ offices through the switch board were funneled to Emily's newly hired Assistant, who, under pain of never working in fashion again if she fouled it up even once, answered that particular line as if she were Lily's assistant and then forwarded the call to Lily's cell phone.

Each evening Lily returned to the penthouse from the gallery she worked at in a top of the line Bentley convertible. She had explained the car to her boss as a short-term lease that a number of her friends had gotten together and arranged as a surprise birthday present. She assured him that the car would be gone soon enough.

Explaining how one of Lynne Ong's most famous paintings, “ _All Women and No Woman_ ”, worth conservatively ten to twelve thousand dollars at retail, being delivered to the gallery from the _Adelson Galleries_ with Lily clearly shown on the receiving documents as the owner was a little harder to explain. When she challenged Millicent about it, Milli had shrugged and noted that she had seen that Lily had appreciated the painting. Then she asked that if she couldn't spend her money on her friends, who could she spend her money on? Lily had just shaken her head and hugged the girl. Then she’d made arrangements to have the painting moved to the penthouse so Danielle would see it there. Danielle had seen her reaction to it, and it would make sense that Lily had bought the painting and had it delivered to her home.

Last night she and Miranda had publicly dined together at the _Gotham Bar and Grill_ , and this morning Lily had received a curious call from Andy asking why Lily's picture was on Page Six schmoozing with her girlfriend. Lily had stammered, trying to prepare an excuse, and Andy had laughed, telling her that Miranda had explained that she was looking for some new art for her townhouse and that she believed in helping out the friends of her girlfriend. Andy had also mentioned that she was sorry that Page Six hadn't taken the time to identify Lily as an art dealer, using only “ _Miranda Priestly and an unknown VIP, having a working dinner in the famous restaurant” as_ the caption to the photograph _._ If they'd identified Lily, Andy explained, it would boost Lily's publicity and make her a desirable commodity among the rich and famous as far as being the someone to buy art from. What Andy didn't know and Lily didn't bother to inform her, was that Natalie Strothers' agency was already doing just that. The publicity blitz would, of course, not become public until after the con was over. But Lily had a year guaranteed of the full attention of one of the most in-demand public relations firms in the country.

Later that morning Miranda contacted Lily to inform her that a floral bouquet had been delivered for her at the R _unway_ offices. Miranda described the bouquet in some detail, including disdainfully noting that it contained numerous freesias. Miranda’s voice was a purr when she told Lily that she firmly believed the hook was now firmly set and the Sisterhood had their desired fish on the line. Later today, Lily decided, she would call Danielle. She was, after all, playing a woman who became obsessed with her potential romantic partners.

***

Sunday, October 11 th , 2009

Miranda felt as if her body was melting into the luxurious mattress of her bed. After their last encounter Miranda had become determined that when the time came for she and Andrea to make love that she would be the dominant one. That she would direct the pace and that she would worship Andrea's body. It had been nearly a week since they had seen each other, and during that time Miranda had swung from the extremes of carnal fantasies of ravishing the beautiful young woman to bouts of fear that Andrea would be disgusted by Miranda's less than perfect, nearly fifty-year-old body.

As seemingly with every aspect of her nascent relationship with the brunette, nothing had gone according to Miranda's plan. They had dined out at a small cafe Andrea favored and then returned to Miranda's townhouse. Miranda had hardly opened the door before Andrea had been upon her. Miranda had experienced her first orgasm of the night while half-dressed, their lips crushed together, and she held up by Andrea against the front door. It hadn't been five minutes before Andrea had made good on her threat of having Miranda moaning her name.

While Miranda had expected Andrea to be disappointed by her body, she had been surprised as Andrea had unwrapped her as if she were a treasured gift and kissed, and licked, and explored each new area of exposed skin with what Miranda could only call wonder. Now, after five hours of lovemaking, Andrea lay beside her, arms protectively encircling her and one finger idly tracing random patterns beneath one of Miranda's breasts. Miranda was sure her body had become boneless. She had experienced more orgasms this evening than she had in her entire relationship and marriage with her last husband, Stephen. She sighed happily, and Andrea shifted her body closer.

“Ready to go again?” came the hot-breathed whisper into her ear, followed by Andrea's teeth doing amazing things to her earlobe. Miranda shivered. She wasn't sure at this moment how she'd lived as long as she had without this in her life, but she was as sure as anything that she wasn't going to give it up now that she had it.

She turned her body toward her lover's. “Yes,” she whispered urgently and then crushed her lips to the lips of her soul mate.

***

Monday, October 12 th , 2009

The telephone call from Miranda was stiff and obviously discontent. “Andrea, I fear our plans for dinner tonight will be quite impossible. I find I must visit Emily in the hospital. The silly girl managed to get herself struck by a cab while on her way back from Dior.”

“Oh my God, Miranda, is she all right?” Andrea immediately responded.

“A broken leg,” Miranda said petulantly. “I suppose that this means I must change plans about who I take to Paris with me as an assistant.”

Andy, wanting to comfort her obviously distressed lover, though a brief moment and then said, “Well, you did say that she would need to rise to the occasion as far as moving into a more important position at _Runway_. If she's in a walking cast, take her to Paris and let it be a baptism by fire.”

Miranda was silent on the other end of the phone for a long moment, and Andy wondered if she had perhaps overstepped her bounds. Then Miranda began to chuckle.

“Take Emily to the fashion event of the year while her leg is in a cast? And expect her to perform her normal duties?” The chuckle became a full-throated laugh. “Andrea, you are a treasure. It is the perfect test to determine if Emily is truly ready to succeed. If she can handle the challenges this will present, she can truly rise to any occasion.”

Once Miranda stopped laughing, her mood was much more affable, and Andrea and she talked for several more minutes before preparations for Paris again demanded the Icon's full attention, forcing her to end the call.

***

Late evening found Lily and Danielle drinking expensive wine before a quietly dying fire in the penthouse fireplace. Lily allowed her mind to wander. Ongoing encounters with the woman she was conning had gotten her to the point that when Danielle rambled with self-aggrandizement, she only half listened. The tone of what Danielle was saying changed, and Lily's ears perked up as the woman finally broached the subject that Lily had been waiting for.

“I don't know if I've mentioned how restrictive my situation at _The Times_ has become,” Danielle said in a sad ”little girl lost” tone. “I'm having problems there because I went public with my sexual harassment suit. I only went to a lawyer after having repeatedly expressed my concerns to management, and they'd refused to do anything to correct the situation.” As she spoke she paced about in front of the fire place, moving her body in such a way as to cause a prospective lover's lusts to percolate. Lily felt a shiver of desire race through her, and again she was amazed at just how good her opponent in this game was. Danielle's tone transitioned to one of outrage and mortification. “My boss was practically molesting me in the corridors. When I made it perfectly clear that I wasn't going to sleep with her, she picked some no-talent hack from the Copy Editing/Fact Checking Department that she could get to sleep with her and raised her up to columnist status.”

Lily sipped her wine, appearing riveted by Danielle's every word. Inside, however, she marveled at how easily Danielle either lied outright or bent the truth to the point that it was unrecognizable. A dark anger swirled underneath as Lily outwardly showed concern and empathetic devotion. This woman was standing there trying to look like a tragic heroine while lying to Lily's face about her best friend and the woman she was falling in love with. She carefully tamped down on her anger. She was the Sisterhood's front person, and they were getting closer to what they wanted to do. Physically kicking Danielle's ass wouldn't further her Boo's desires to get even.

“So I was wondering,” Danielle continued, completely oblivious to the internal struggle inside Lily to not get up and slap her senseless, “if you might be able to help me get something at Elias-Clarke. Perhaps something at _Runway...”_

“Don't you have an ongoing feud with Miranda Priestly?” Lily asked softly, being struggling to stay in the character the Sisterhood had created. The one that was so gone on the woman before her that she wanted to please her at any cost.

“Well,” Danielle said lightly, “I was sort of hoping that you could put an end to that, too. Miranda,” she said all too familiarly, “and my differences are artistic and stylistic. I'm convinced that the old goat hasn't had a new thought about fashion since the late Eighties when she took over _Runway.”_

Lily continued to watch the woman's movements, each designed to make her want Danielle sexually. “What is it you want me to do, Danielle?” she asked, her eyes hot on the suggestive exhibition before her, each move of the display making her angrier.

“Put me up for an editor position, then make that old witch hire me and admit publicly that I'm right and she's wrong,” Danielle said as she stopped directly in front of the fireplace and played with the top button of her blouse. “It would make me, professionally...and then I'd make you so very happy...”

Something inside Lily snapped. This bitch had done this to “her” Karen. All of a sudden Danielle was no longer in the presence of the retiring Lily that the Sisterhood had created to lure the woman in, but face to face with the workplace Dragon Miranda had devised and trained her to be for their staged public encounter. And the Dragon was breathing cold fire. “So,” she said, her voice the one that Miranda had illustrated for her. The one so quiet that you had to listen for it. “If I “make” you, you'll “make” me,” she said, her voice tinged with frost.

Danielle's eyes widened at this new woman sitting on the couch, drink in hand and eyeing her with cold eyes. “Yes, she whispered, “But I thought...”

“You thought that you'd manipulate me. You know that I'm not the same in business as I am in my personal life, Danielle,” Lily said coldly, wondering if she'd already ruined all the Sisterhood had worked for, but it was too late to change her course now. “You've brought business into this thing between us, and one thing I understand is a deal. So here it is. I'll get you what you want. I'll get you a job at _Runway._ Hell, I'll have a new position created. Fashion Adviser to the Editor-in-Chief. I'll make Miranda Priestly publicly bow and scrape to you. And then you'll give me what I want.” Lily looked Danielle up and down lasciviously, then licked her lips. “And I always, Danielle,” she said firmly, “get the best end of any deal I enter into.”

Danielle, uncertain for first time and feeling a surge of emotion she had never experienced before, shivered before the Dragon.


	11. Chapter 11

Thursday, October 15th, 2009  
  
Four days later it was Cynthia's turn to play her part in the drama. When scripting her encounter with the other Sisters, she had suggested that convincing Danielle that Lily was coming under her control would be as simple as having Cynthia deliver legal papers to Lily at the penthouse. She had assured everyone that if she were to attempt to warn the faux-Lily about Danielle's agenda while in Danielle's presence and Lily vehemently sided with Danielle, that Danielle would believe that she was completely in control of the situation and therefore would move ahead rapidly with her plans to manipulate Lily, giving the Sisterhood the fertile ground it needed for the next phase of their plan.  
  
The doorman rang the intercom and announced that someone from Lily's lawyer’s office had arrived with some papers for Lily to sign and, being expected, was on her way up in the elevator. Lily moved easily from the couch before the sunken fireplace and looked at Danielle where she perched on the other sofa. “This will just take a few minutes,” she said softly, putting her cocktail down on the end table, “and then we can think about where to go for dinner.”  
  
Danielle nodded as the penthouse doorbell rang. Lily opened the door quietly and invited the person to step inside. Lily watched as Danielle looked up and saw her ex-plaything standing there, briefcase in hand. She watched as Cynthia's eyes widened before speaking. “You have the papers for me to sign?” Lily asked.  
  
Cynthia diverted her eyes from Danielle and turned to Lily. “Yes. Mr. Barnaby asked me to bring them over.”  
  
Lily gestured to a doorway that led to her home office. “Come in here, and I'll look them over.” She glanced over to Danielle and smiled. “I'll just be a few moments, darling,” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared into the room beyond.  
  
Cynthia followed, and the door closed behind her. Danielle kicked off her shoes and was up like a shot. Crossing the room on silent feet, she approached the door. Putting her ear to it, she heard Lily's raised voice. “How dare you impugn her!” she heard Lily say. “I will remind you, Ms. Parnell, that you are a junior partner at your firm. If you dare...” Lily said, anger in her tone.  
  
“Ms. Freedman,” Cynthia's voice implored, “that woman...”  
  
“Another word from you, Ms. Parnell, and I'll see to it you are _very, very_ sorry. You may tell Mr. Barnaby that as of tomorrow morning, I'll be looking for a new law firm,” Danielle heard Lily say sharply through the closed door. Danielle quickly moved back to the couch on which she had been sitting as the door to the office opened. Lily's body language was angry as she strode to the penthouse's front door and opened it. “Now get out of my home!” she commanded.  
  
Cynthia quickly left without another word.  
  
Danielle looked to Lily where she stood. “You seem upset,” she offered in her best caring tone.  
  
“Is _she_ an ex of yours?” Lily snapped.  
  
“We had a few dates,” Danielle answered, acting saddened. “She wasn't right for me. We didn't want the same things.”  
  
Lily picked up her cell phone and, after hitting a speed-dial number, placed it to her ear. Her eyes were hard on Danielle, and the woman could feel the green-eyed monster in the room with them. “I want to speak with Randolph Barnaby...Gone for the evening? Well you tell him first thing tomorrow morning that your firm is about to lose Lily Freedman's business!” She viciously stabbed the button to end the call. Danielle smiled internally. Except for the unnerving feelings she was experiencing, everything was going according to her plan.  
  
***  
  
Miranda sat at the head of her dining room table and again inspected the arrangement of the table. It was a careful balance between elegant and homey, exactly the look she had striven for.  
  
Tomorrow evening she would leave for Paris, so the early evenings of this week had been dedicated to time with her daughters. She had been home to share dinner with them each night and to spend some time with them before they went up to bed. She had of course, had their nanny stay on in the evenings so that she could leave for the office again as soon as the girls had gone up to their rooms, but that was just how things were the week before she left for fashion week in Paris. Too much to do and too little time to get it all done properly. Her daughters understood and were grateful that Miranda had changed her behavior after Stephen had left and filed for divorce. Their behavior when they were with her had indicated to her that they were very aware that their mother was making a real effort at rebuilding her relationship with them.  
  
She looked at the table one last time and carefully adjusted one of the glasses. In a little while Andrea would arrive with two pizzas. Miranda had had the girls' nanny brief her on their favorite foods, and pizza was at the absolute top of that list. Pizza was an item that the twins rarely got to eat, and the fact that not only were they having it for dinner tonight but also that it was coming from a run of the mill pizza parlor rather than made by their cook made them both terribly excited. This treat for them was part of Miranda's design. Andrea would be the bearer of these special treats and then would spend some time this evening with the girls. It was a chance for them to become acquainted. And with Andrea bringing the pizza, Miranda knew that it would stand her in good stead with the twins.  
  
***  
  
It was past their bedtime. Their mother had already kissed them goodnight and headed back to the office, but Andy had stayed. Carolyn and Cassidy had been surprised to discover that their mother had a "friend," but Carolyn, usually the far more insightful of the pair, had brought it to her sister's attention that something had been different with their mother recently, and she postulated that it was the presence of this woman in their mother's life. Dinner hadn't even been served before Carolyn quietly had pointed out to Cassidy that their mom had never looked at Stephen like she was looking at Andy. By the middle of dinner, Cassidy, who had begun to watch for the signs that her sister was so sure she was seeing, realized how happy her mother seemed in the presence of this newcomer to their home.  
  
As far as the twin's interaction with Andy was concerned, Andy could somehow immediately tell them apart as individuals, knowing that Caroline was Caroline and Cassidy, Cassidy, immediately endearing herself to the twins. During dinner the young woman happily engaged them in conversation as equals, not as if speaking to a child. When an after dinner contest of Dance-Dance-Revolution on the Wii had been suggested, Andy immediately engaged in a laughing game of trash talking while racing them up the stairs to the playroom.  
  
After several hours when Andy finally admitted defeat in the "great dance-off" and escorted them to their rooms to tuck them in, there wasn't any need for verbal communication between the twins. They were both well aware that this laughing stranger, who had apparently won their mother's heart, had made a wonderful start on winning theirs, too.  
  
***  
  
It was late that night at a meeting of the Sisterhood in Miranda's office that the question arose of exactly what the end game should look like with regard to the scam they were perpetrating on Danielle.  
“When it comes up, she's going to want to know whom Elias-Clarke is supposedly going to replace you with Miranda,” Karen said, sipping a thirty-year-old Scotch.  
  
“When the time comes, Ms. Gold will have acquired a most appropriate name to go public with,” Miranda replied, smiling a small, wicked smile. “Lily,” she asked, holding up a scandalously short , copper-sequined Zuhair Murad cocktail dress. "Would Andrea like this color?”  
  
Lily looked up at the dress and smiled. “If she thought you'd like that color on her, she'd love it, Miranda,” Lily answered. “So, whose name am I going to give her?”  
  
Miranda shook her head and put the dress back on the rack that she stood before, then she selected another one. “You won't give her any name,” she replied absently, inspecting the dress in her hand and apparently finding it unsuitable for 'her' Andrea. “All you need do is lead Danielle to believe that I am to be replaced and let her know that Irv Ravitz has a candidate in mind. Danielle will do the rest, and our con will be all the more believable to her because she's had to work for that information.”  
  
Natalie looked up from where she sat making some notes. “It's like learning at the feet of the master,” she said, awe in her tone. “You know how this is going to end...” she continued. “You know who she'll choose...”  
  
Miranda smiled a cat-to-canary smile. “I've played this game before. I know who Irv meets with privately on a regular basis. I am simply betting that Danielle will discover those meetings and misinterpret their purpose. If those meetings should become public without me getting my hands dirty, it can serve my interests here at Runway. I'm sure that none of you would begrudge me that.”  
  
All the members of the Sisterhood nodded that they certainly wouldn't begrudge Miranda anything that would strengthen her position at Runway.  
  
***  
  
Friday, October 16th, 2009  
  
Danielle was leaving her latest date with her new mark. A seemingly spur-of-the-moment business day lunch date had been quite successful from Danielle's point of view. On the way to her chosen restaurant she had purposely waltzed Lily by the window of one of the trendiest and most upscale designer jewelry stores in Manhattan. As if on a whim she had made a casual comment about liking a certain necklace in the window. An obscenely expensive piece that she'd been salivating over since seeing it placed in the window display days before. Lily hadn't blinked. She'd taken Danielle into the store and had purchased the piece without even having Danielle try it on first. With the comfortable weight of the heavy jewelry residing around her neck, Danielle hoped that everything was going according to her plan, but she was uncertain. Lily wasn't like all the others. Lily had fire. She understood the dynamics of power. Any suggestion Danielle made, Lily embraced, yet Danielle was worried. She was sure that she could squeeze more out of Lily than any of her previous marks, even more than she had gotten from that silly, broken, little girl/child Millicent Darling who had given her a house, a car, and the equivalent of a year’s salary, but she wasn't certain that, that was what she wanted from Lily anymore. She was trying to struggle through the unusual morass of confusing feelings when her cell phone rang in her purse. She moved out of traffic and answered the call. “Danielle Gold,” she said into the phone's mouthpiece.  
  
“I have something for you,” said a clandestinely whispered male voice on the other end of the line. “Something you're really going to want to see.” Danielle recognized the voice of her informer in Natalie Strothers' public relations firm.  
  
“I can meet you in half an hour at the usual place,” she replied.  
  
“Bring your checkbook,” the voice on the other end of the call demanded. “This piece of info is going to cost you.” Then he disconnected the call.  
  
Danielle stood seething. The little twerp was daring to hold her up for larger payments now the he had access to the important files in Natalie's agency. Perhaps after this meeting she'd cultivate a lover among Natalie's staff and, once securing a new source, she'd find a way to throw her paid informant to the wolves by allowing Natalie to discover his duplicity. She smiled at the thought.  
  
***  
  
The informant hung up the phone in Natalie Strothers' office and looked across the desk at his employer. “Half an hour,” he said. “At the coffee shop where we usually meet.”  
  
Natalie smiled and handed him a crumpled set of notes that she herself had written. She had no doubt that Danielle would recognize her handwriting. “Now repeat what you're going to tell her,” she instructed the young man.  
  
“That I'm short on cash so I've been keeping my eye out for things that would interest her. I found this in the shredder room. I knew she'd want this, but I want what it's worth,” he replied.  
  
Natalie nodded. “Remember to not show her the papers until you've been paid. Drop the name of the person the material is about. If I know her, she'll beg to get her hands on it if you make her.”  
  
The young man shivered in his seat. “No, thank you,” he replied. “Because she'd beg now and then find a way to get even later. She's not someone I want knowing that I crossed her.”  
  
Natalie nodded again. “This is the last thing I'll ask you to do. After this, you're just another employee with a bright future ahead of him here at the firm.”  
  
The young man smiled and tucked the papers away into a folder. “I'd better get going,” he said, rising from his chair. “It's a fifteen minute subway ride to the coffee shop.”  
  
***  
  
Due to Irv and his constant nagging to the board of directors about Miranda's profligate ways, she had, over the last several months, “chosen” to compromise where business decisions would not affect the quality of Runway’s magazine issues that were to be published each month. The travel arrangements for moving her staff to the shows in Paris had been one of these ”compromises.” She had instructed her staff not to charter the usual jet for transporting the Runway delegation but instead to buy blocks of seats on available commercial flights. It was horribly inconvenient, as groups of employees had been leaving JFK International Airport for Paris since early in the morning.  
  
This “choice” to compromise was all part of a more elaborate plan Miranda had to secure her position as Runway's Editor-in-Chief permanently. She knew Irv was plotting to replace her with Jacqueline Follet of French Runway. She'd already taken steps to derail the coup that would blossom in Paris and had the necessary documents to force Irv's hand in her possession. The attempted coup would be easily thwarted. What she also now intended was to use the plot of the Six Sisters to bolster her hold on the editor-in-chief position. If things went according to Miranda's design, what she'd hinted at during her late-night meeting with the Sisterhood would come to pass where Irv was in her pocket and believing her both confederate and friend.  
  
Her arrival at the airport for this evening flight, the last of the day, had been organized chaos, and the flight accommodations were just barely satisfactory. So here she sat on the isle, two and a half hours out over the Atlantic Ocean in a first class seat, three rows in front of where Andrea sat. Emily sat nervously beside her in Miranda's usual window seat, her plaster-encased leg cleverly supported by pillows provided by an enterprising flight attendant. Emily, as always, was almost breathlessly awaiting Miranda's slightest whim. Miranda had to admit to herself that she was impressed with the girl's resolve. When Miranda had visited Emily in the hospital the evening the girl's injuries had occurred, Emily had obviously feared that her leg would cause her to lose the opportunity to accompany Miranda to the shows in Paris. Miranda could see the girl trying to steel herself for learning that Miranda would take Heather in her place.  
  
Miranda had coldly looked Emily up and down and pursed her lips. “Don't let this little inconvenience make you think that your responsibilities to Runway have lessened. I will expect you in a walking cast and ready to travel to Paris. That's all,” she had said and then turned and strode from the hospital room. Miranda remembered how she had smiled wickedly in the elevator, amused by her behavior.  
  
The cast was a hideous shade of something between purple and lavender. It would be amusing to see how Emily dealt with such a fashion faux pas.  
  
Miranda closed her eyes and blew breath through her nose. Both she and Andrea had agreed that what they had was new, and fragile, and for a time something that they wanted to remain private and just between the two of them—hence the seating arrangements. It had been almost a week since they'd managed any kind of truly private moment together, and Miranda's body and soul rebelled at the separation. She had tasted forbidden fruit, and now she must have more. She had already decided that while in Paris she would sneak over late at night and scratch on Andrea's door, demanding entry and not leaving the arms of her lover until the morning sun threatened.  
  
Unable to simply sit anymore she rose from her first class seat discontentedly and stalked toward the rear of the plane. This took her by Andrea's seat, and she glanced at the woman who was apparently asleep as were most of the passengers on this dark-of-night flight. Even the flight attendants seemed to be dozing. Miranda continued her journey out of first class and through the cabin. There too virtually everyone was asleep. Coming to the rear of the plane and feeling the need to scream her frustration, she stepped into one of the lavatories. Closing the door, she sighed and tried to gather her reserves. She was out of character and out of sorts since last Sunday's sexual encounter with her beloved Andrea. Never had she craved such contact before. It was as if Andrea had awakened a part of Miranda that had always lain dormant. A passionate, sexual being that hungered for sensation. She closed her eyes when the quiet knock came on the door. “Occupied,” she said, annoyed. _Couldn't the idiot see the lighted sign?_ she thought angrily to herself. Again the quiet knock came. Ready to vent her frustration and discontent on the hapless soul who was intruding on her moment of solitude, she opened the door to lash out.  
  
The moment the door opened, Andrea pushed inside and secured the lock. She turned on her surprised lover. “It's been almost a week, Miranda,” the girl purred in a whisper. “When I'm with someone, that's just too long to wait.” Her hands were on Miranda's hips, and she was maneuvering and turning Miranda to where she could perch the older woman on the edge of the tiny sink.  
  
The girl was suddenly kneeing before her in the tiny space, and Miranda could feel Andrea's fingers searching out the edges of her panties under her skirt. Miranda couldn't believe that Andrea was here with her or that the girl intended to take her in this tiny washroom in the airplane. “Andrea, you certainly can't mean to...” She felt her underwear slide down her silk, hose-encased legs and watched Andrea lick her lips. Miranda breathed in deeply and realized she was experiencing the most erotic moment of her life to date.  
  
“You'll need to be quiet, Miranda,” the wicked girl whispered with a smile. “If you're not, everyone in cabin class will know you've joined the mile high club.” Her lover's head disappeared beneath her skirt, and that talented tongue was suddenly on her velvety folds. Miranda bit down on her lower lip and wondered how she was going to hide the bruises that were going to be there if she could not scream out her pleasure as Andrea drove her out of her mind, teasing and pushing her toward her climax.  
  
Well, it was a good thing that she was more than competent in the art of using make up.  
  
***  
  
An eternity later a flight attendant knocked on the lavatory door and asked if everything was all right. Miranda was enjoying a moment of post orgasmic bliss as Andrea knelt in supplication before her, silently hugging her legs. “Everything's fine,” Miranda snapped. “I'll be out in a moment!” Andrea, giggling silently, released her legs, stood up, and helped Miranda put herself to rights. “My room, tonight, as soon as you are checked in and settled,” Miranda whispered to the woman before her.  
  
“What about your assistant?” Andrea asked teasingly. “Aren’t you worried she'll let herself in at an inopportune moment?”  
  
“Not if I send her out to find me a pizza after midnight in Paris, she won't,” Miranda smiled evilly. Then, allowing herself a quick glance in the small over-the-sink mirror she said, “Don’t follow me too closely. I'd prefer that no one realizes our liaison occurred. We don't want people talking about us, yet.” Opening the door to the lavatory, she exited and closed the door behind her.  
  
Andy relocked the lavatory door and smiled while thinking to herself, _Oh Miranda, I am SO going to make you pay for this tonight._  
  
***  
  
At a few minutes before eleven PM in New York City, Bev Smith was on the air doing her regular syndicated ten-to-midnight nightly entertainment news and information show on AM-1600-WWRL. During a commercial break her producer pointed to the phone and made the motion meaning that he believed the call to be important. She picked up the call and said, “Bev Smith.”  
  
A man's voice on the other end of the call said, “Bev, I'm a long time fan. I have something good for you. You know that big interview that _The Times_ has been running teasers about all week?”  
  
“Yeah,” Bev answered, already thinking about the next bit she intended to talk about and not giving her full attention to the caller.  
  
“It's Miranda Priestly being interviewed. It covers things she's never talked about before. It's gonna be huge,” the caller said.  
  
The caller had Bev's full attention. “How sure of this information are you?” she asked. “Because I don't want to look like a damn fool if I run with it.”  
  
“I work in the print room of _The Times_. I've just read the article in the Sunday Style section,” the caller assured her.  
  
Two minutes later Bev Smith was on the air again. “Listeners,” she said jovially into her microphone, “I've just learned from one of my sources—love ya, darling—that the Ice Queen, if you favor Page Six, or the Dragon Lady, if your reading pleasure is Perez Hilton—New York City's one and only Miranda Priestly, the iron hand in the fashionable velvet glove of _Runway_ magazine--is the subject of the huge interview _The New York Times_ has been running teasers about all week. So get out there early and grab a copy because this issue of _The Times_ is going to sell like hot cakes!”  
  
Bill MacGrath allowed himself a small smile as he hung up the print room phone.  
  
***  
  
Danielle sat in her condominium late in the night staring at the scribbled notes on her lap. Huge wasn't the word for the story she had. This story would shake the very foundations of New York City. Miranda Priestly was to be replaced as editor-in-chief at _Runway_ after more than two decades as the head of the flagship publication of Elias-Clarke Publishing. She wasn't stepping down; she was being fired. Natalie Strothers was in on the secret because Lily Freedman, while one of the prime movers in the editor-in-chief's termination for reasons of cutting costs at _Runway_ magazine, wanted things spun so she didn't come out the villain of the piece. The notes, once due for the shredder and now in Danielle's hot, little hands, were pure dynamite. The coup would occur during Paris Fashion Week. In the final hours of the biggest fashion event of the year, the reigning queen of fashion publishing would be deposed and return to New York unemployed. The note hinted that Irv Ravitz was already in secret negotiations with the replacement hand picked as Miranda's successor but did not identify that individual by name. Danielle sighed and cursed her ill luck. Things were never easy, and she always had to work for any little thing she got. She immediately resolved to find out whom Irv Ravitz would replace the Dragon Lady with. The question then became how to go about finding out that piece of information. Her first thought was to get information out of Lily, but that method was too confusing to deal with at this juncture. First off, she might have to explain how she had come by the information, and secondly, she had begun to wonder if she was developing true feelings for the woman. She had begun to consider the possibility that it would become necessary at some point soon to be truthful with the woman about the how and the why of it all. She was also not ready to surrender her most powerful weapon. To acquire the information might mean sleeping with Lily to give herself the opportunity to subtly solicit what she wanted to know during their pillow talk. Such a move would reduce the sexual tension between them, surrendering one of the “controls” that Danielle was counting on to keep manipulating the wealthy woman. And at this point, Danielle had begun to wonder how long she would continue to remain in control of the situation. _Who else would know?_ she wondered. _Who else can I ask?_ Then it hit her. Natalie had always been so easy. She'd go to the woman, offering a one-night stand, a sexual liaison, no strings attached. She was certain that any of her cast-off lovers would welcome her returned attentions. She would have to be firm in the morning, reminding Natalie that the relationship was over and that it was for the best. She would, of course, let the woman try and change her mind. The gifts sent as enticements to stay were usually expensive, and Natalie had wonderful taste in both clothing and jewelry. She reached for her cell phone intent on arranging a face-to-face meeting.  
  
Saturday, October 17th, 2009  
  
The call rang Lily's cell phone at something just after noon as she shopped in the gourmet grocery not far down the street from the penthouse. Milli, bless her heart, had even opened an account in this grocery store so that Lily could maintain the façade of being the make-believe powerhouse executive. Lily was trying hard not to get too used to this kind of lifestyle: the fashion, a car at her disposal, a magnificent apartment, a grocery store where she didn't even have to pick up a basket. She entered, and one of the employees followed her around, carrying her basket for her. Nor would she lug bags of groceries several blocks and then up five flights of stairs. No, she would sign her name, and the groceries would be delivered to her apartment. If she allowed, they would even be put away in her kitchen for her.  
  
She dug into the newest Fendi purse and took out her “executive” cell phone. “Lily Freedman,” she answered, emulating everything Miranda had taught her about tone and delivery.  
  
“Lily,” a jovial voice came from the other end of the call. “It's Natalie. I just thought it was only fair and proper between friends to let you know that your girlfriend is sleeping around on you.”  
  
Lily's heart dropped. “Karen is....” she started, her voice perplexed.  
  
“Oh God! Oh Lily, I'm SO sorry! I'm an idiot!” Natalie stammered, embarrassed. “Not Karen—Karen has nothing to do with this call. I'm talking about Danielle.”  
  
“Oh, that girlfriend,” Lily replied, suddenly feeling like she might be able to breathe again at some point in the near future.  
  
“Yeah,” Natalie responded. “She called me last night looking for information, just like we guessed she would. Turned up at my place with a bottle of my favorite booze, shaking her ass under my nose.”  
  
“So what did you do?” Lily asked, unsure where this conversation was going.  
  
“I drank some of her booze, and then I sacrificed my virtue for the greater good of the Sisterhood,” Natalie laughingly replied. “As a defense, it's been a long while since I last got laid, and I thought she'd take the information I wanted to feed her better if she thought that she was running the game. The only real pity is that she wasn't as good in bed as I remembered,” she mock pouted.  
  
Lily glanced at the young man patiently holding her basket and said, “As long as you're all right with what you did, I've got no problem with it. Did you pass on the information you wanted to?”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Natalie said, laughter in her voice. “Danielle now knows where Irv Ravitz meets his mysterious person several times a week and even has some idea of what times the meetings usually take place.”  
  
“Thank you, Natalie,” Lily responded. “That should make it a slam dunk so that we’ll be on schedule to bring things to a head in time to coincide with our Sister's return from Paris.”  
  
Natalie chuckled again, “Should make the week after next interesting, to say the least.”  
  
***  
  
 _The Times_ had scheduled running Miranda's interview to correspond with the beginning of the paper's coverage of Paris Fashion Week. The print room was instructed to run an unusually heavy printing. The machines ran late Friday night just as they always did for the Sunday edition. The trucks picked up their loads and trundled them off to the distributors and newsstands in the early dawn of Saturday morning.  
  
By Saturday afternoon regular vendors of the _The New York Times_ were howling for additional copies, as their stock of the Sunday edition on hand were beginning to run dangerously low. A second printing was run. Regional U.S. and international orders for the edition were through the roof. By Saturday evening print foreman Bill MacGrath gruffly ordered an unprecedented third printing of the edition. Then he turned to one of his print monkeys and said, “I told you that Sachs kid was going places. I knew it from the moment that first article was sent down.”

***

Jack Prentice, Senior Editor of the Copy Editing and Fact Checking department where Andy Sachs had gotten her start at the paper, sat in his favorite bar, his favorite drink before him. A cigar stuck out of his shirt pocket. He felt as proud as on the nights his children had been born. He again read the text of Andy's interview. It was fair and balanced. Andy didn't shrink from the hard questions, nor did she fail to follow up those questions until she had gotten an answer. But she also had treated her subject with respect and compassion, allowing a legend’s humanity to shine through. She had somehow gotten Miranda to talk about things that the feared and fabled Dragon Lady had never addressed with the press. Her hopes, her fears, controversial decisions she had made. She'd even gotten Miranda to talk about her kids. The result was so humanizing that not even Miranda’s harshest critics could fault the prose Andy had woven around the woman, showing a concerned and uncertain mother trying hard to do the best that she could for her beloved children. It was, in Jack's opinion, a Pulitzer worthy article. Jack nodded and reached for the cigar. “Only thing that could make tonight perfect, Sachs,” he said to himself, “is if you were here so I could toast your success.”  
  
***  
  
The first day of shows in Paris was magical for Miranda. She finally had someone to talk to who understood fashion on the same instinctual level she did. The Icon, dissatisfied with having to turn her head and lean into the second row to talk to the woman who she was coming to believe was her soul mate, quickly threw caution to the wind and just before the beginning of the third show of the day gave Emily the virtually impossible task of having the seating in the front row of all shows Miranda was to attend rearranged so that the nobody interim fashion journalist of _The New York Times_ was seated immediately next to the reigning Goddess of Fashion. It wasn't even dinnertime before people were talking. By press time for the morning edition, one of the Paris gossip rags ran a story saying that a hotel employee had seen Miranda's suddenly constant companion sneaking out of Miranda's hotel room in a disheveled state during the predawn hours of Sunday morning.  
  
Sunday, October 18th, 2009  
  
To Miranda’s relief, the story was quickly pooh-poohed by the more mainstream European press. It was well-known that the particular gossip rag running the story was often guilty of making up stories out of whole cloth. The reputable press's spin was that the reigning American Queen of Fashion had found a kindred spirit in the young fashion columnist, and their sudden relationship was nothing more than the older woman professionally mentoring the younger one.  
  
It was surprising to Miranda that this state of affairs should become the catalyst for Andrea's and her first fight. She had decided that, for once, she didn't care what the press wrote. She was with Andrea and that was, in her mind, simply how things were going to be. Miranda was surprised to find that once Andy arrived in her suite prior to going to dinner, Andrea had definite opinions on the matter.  
  
“You've gone completely around the bend,” she said very clearly.  
  
“Excuse me?” Miranda said, surprised at the words coming from her lover's lips.  
  
“We discussed this,” Andrea said, frustration lacing her voice. “You told me that the C.E.O. of Elias-Clarke is gunning for you here. Trying to have you fired. You have assured me that you have the means to derail his plot, and I trust that you do, but in this kind of situation you certainly don't need to give him any additional ammunition to use against you.”  
  
“Andrea,” Miranda said with some asperity, “Irv Ravitz is a worm whom I have been getting the best of for many years now. You needn't worry...”.  
  
“I do worry, Miranda,” Andrea answered, just as hotly. “Neither of us need the kind of shit storm this kind of press could bring...”  
  
“Andrea, there is no need for such language," Miranda grated, her voice falling into the cold, detached tone that she used when dealing with her employees.  
  
“You stop that right this minute, Miranda Priestly,” Andrea responded, voice low and angry, her tone dangerous. “I'm not one of your employees or one of the people that you intimidate with your icon status. I'm your lover, and I'll damn well be treated differently than those other people. All I'm saying here is that we need to be discreet. For both of our sakes. I'm new at my position. It wouldn't look too good to my employers if they found out that I flew over here really to be with you rather than to cover fashion week, even if that is the truth!”  
  
The girl was talking back to her. Was insisting that she was an equal. Was forcefully making her case. No one did this to Miranda Priestly. No one had dared attempt it in decades. Miranda couldn't remember a time she'd been more turned on... “You're asking for discretion?” she, demanded, her voice low and rough with desire. “Then you may as well understand here and now that you're not getting out of this room clothed. You can take them off yourself so that they'll be fit to wear again once I'm done ravishing you, or I can rip them off you, knowing that the photographers will have a field day when you try to return to your room. I guarantee you that they'll have something juicy to photograph, enough to set the scandal-hungry public on its collective ear.”  
  
Andy swallowed hard and took a step back. The fire in Miranda's eyes was unmistakable. In the quickly diminishing rational part of her brain, Andy noted that standing up to Miranda had very positive side effects. Even as Andy protested, asking “what about discretion?” her traitorous hands unconsciously reached for the buttons of her blouse and started unfastening them, showing Miranda the lacy "fuck me" bra she was wearing.  
  
Miranda licked her lips. “We'll discuss discretion afterward, you wicked girl,” she said lowly. “But understand, discretion is absolutely as far as I'm willing to go...” she continued, as she advanced on Andrea. “Make no mistake, you are mine, Andrea Sachs, and I'll not deny myself the pleasure of your company or your touch, not for one moment longer.”  
  
Andy shivered upon hearing words she had prayed for and never dared hope to hear voiced. She quite willingly and wantonly submitted to Miranda's lusts.  
  
Thursday, October 22nd, 2009  
  
Danielle Gold stood in the cold drizzle outside a brownstone in the extremely affluent neighborhood of Beekman Place. It had taken her nearly a week to follow Irv Ravitz's trail and discover whom he was meeting with secretly on a regular basis. She had attempted to follow him last Tuesday evening to a meeting but had lost his town car in heavy traffic. Afterward she had driven around for several hours until she'd happened to see the town car that Irv had used idling by the curb in one of the most up-scale neighborhoods in the city. She had parked and waited, and at close to midnight Irv had had strode out of one of the brownstones along the street and gotten back into the town car.  
  
The next day she used the simple expedient of snooping through the mailbox of the address Irv had exited to determine that the resident who lived in the brownstone was a woman named Jillian Hoffner. Surveillance from her car over the rest of that day suggested that the woman was a thirty-something beauty as she came and went from the brownstone. A significant amount of investigation on the web via Danielle's smart phone indicated that Jillian Hoffner had no known input in fashion or publishing at any time of her life. A series of phone calls to Danielle's informal network of “sources” supplied the information that Irv Ravitz was just the latest in a long line of sugar-daddies who had been taking care of all of Jillian Hoffner's needs since she was in her late teens. As far as Danielle could determine, Jillian was being kept at this point in time by Irv. What was evident from peeking in one of the lower story windows on this Thursday evening was that the woman was enthusiastically screwing Irv on a regular basis.  
  
This settled things in Danielle's mind, giving her confirmation that she had hit the jackpot. This woman was exactly like her. Someone who knew the game and was playing for high stakes just like she was with Lily. She was sure that this woman was the one who would be replacing Miranda Priestly as the head of Runway magazine in less than a week's time. If she wanted to be the one to break this story she had to move fast but at the same time make sure she broke the story at precisely the right moment. Miranda's termination would occur on Saturday at the last function of fashion week. It wouldn't do for that little bitch who had usurped her place at The Times to get the story before she did. Unfortunately, being in Paris and traveling in Miranda Priestly's circle as the little no-talent bitch she was gave Andy Sachs the edge.  
  
The next thing on Danielle's agenda was to find out exactly what time the function that would see the fall of Miranda Priestly would occur, correct for the time difference between New York City and Paris, and then to call in all the favors she had remaining in the publishing world to arrange a press conference in front of the Elias-Clarke building, occurring fifteen minutes before the beginning of that function in Paris. Between now and her glorious moment in the limelight she would arrange to meet Jilllan Hoffner and charm woman. She wasn't going to fail this time. She was going to make sure all of her bases were covered so that she ended up where she wanted to be—at the head of a major fashion magazine.  
  
Friday, October 23rd, 2009  
  
Miranda sat in her suite and regarded Nigel across a room service table littered with the remains of breakfast. Andrea had left only a moment ago, saying that she needed a swim in the hotel pool to work off the calories from the plate of fruit-laden crepes she'd devoured while breaking her fast.  
  
Nigel smiled like an indulgent uncle. “It would appear that things are going well between you and Andy,” he said, pouring himself another cup of coffee from the carafe on the table.  
  
Miranda nodded, looking down at the table. She was both uncomfortable and nervous. She was painfully aware that she could count the number of true friends she had on a single hand, and she was about to severely strain her relationship with the one she counted as both her oldest and dearest friend. Without the man sitting across the table from her, she and her Andrea likely would have passed each other like two ships in the night. Here, now, she was going to crush a friend's dream. “Yes, Nigel,” she said softly, “and I have you to thank for her being here. Perhaps even being with me at all...”  
  
Nigel had known Miranda for thirty years. Had been her right arm for twenty of those years. They knew each other thoroughly, and Miranda could tell from the look on his face that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I've known you for a long time, Miranda,” he said. “You have something you need to say, but you don't want to say it.”  
  
Miranda nodded and looked down at the table. “I've used my influence to have your name taken out of contention for the James Holt position,” she said softly. “Enough people know that you are up for the position that the public perception shall be that I did so to save my own position as editor-in-chief at Runway.”  
  
Nigel looked stricken. “I was counting on that position, Miranda,” he said, his voice betraying a level of agitation.  
  
“I know,” Miranda answered, looking up, meeting his eyes, and nodding. “I hope you'll allow me to explain my reasons.”  
  
Nigel sat back and looked at her speculatively. “Miranda Priestly explaining a business decision?” he asked, acerbically.  
  
“ No,... Miranda, your friend, explaining herself and hoping she hasn't ruined a friendship she holds very dear,” she offered, regret in her tone. “I've arranged for Jacqueline Follet to be offered the position. Because certain people know of Irv's plans and his plotting to have me removed as editor-in-chief and her as my replacement, this will also be seen publicly as me saving my job at your expense.”  
  
Nigel nodded, his eyes distressed. “You've hated Jacqueline since you and she worked together at _French Runway_. The rivalry between you two is almost legendary in the industry. I can see why people would think that.” He sat back and shook his head. “But I know you better than that. What's this really about Miranda?” he asked.  
  
“James Holt's company isn't going to succeed, Nigel,” Miranda sighed. “His initial designs showed real promise, but his last two collections have both been wanting. I'm sure you've noticed it, too. His passionate embracing of a hedonistic lifestyle and his arrogant certainty that he is the fashion genius of his generation have combined to create a situation where he is spending more time partying than paying attention to his art. Now I hear that he's dabbling in things that will truly be damaging to his potential.”  
  
Nigel nodded, “Cocaine, and a lot of it on a very regular basis, I hear.”  
  
Miranda spoke sadly as she nodded, “My estimation is that he has perhaps two seasons before the public turns from him, if the drugs don't kill him first."  
  
Nigel sighed and picked up his coffee cup, his eyes staring into the middle distance. “And the person selected as the head of James Holt International will take the blame professionally when he goes belly up. It may not be the end of that individual's career, but they will never fully recover from it.” He broke into a wicked smile. “I can see why you want Jacqueline for the job.”  
  
Miranda nodded and offered her own small, wicked smile before becoming serious. “There is another opportunity I would like to discuss with you, if you're willing,” she offered tentatively, still afraid that she had damaged their relationship beyond repair.  
  
“I learned long ago that it's always a good idea to listen to you when you choose to speak,” he said, again sipping his coffee and watching her over the rim of the cup.  
  
“There something worthy of you waiting in the wings,” she said. “Something that I believe has a far brighter future than that of the James Holt fiasco.” Miranda could see Nigel's eyes flare with interest.  
  
“Really?” he asked, curiosity in his voice. “What is it you see on the horizon?”  
  
“Orla Frostrop,” Miranda said simply. “I already have a number of investors prepared to back her. After her showing here in Paris yesterday, I have no doubt that many more will be lining up to invest in a company where she is the designer.”  
  
Nigel carefully placed his coffee cup on its saucer. "When you first saw the pictures of her fashions, you compared her to Coco Chanel. Do you still think she's that good?” he asked.  
  
“I think she may be better, Nigel,” Miranda said, gazing earnestly into his eyes. “And I think she's going to have one advantage Coco never had. If I have my way, Orla Frostrop will have a glorious future ahead of her, and you are just the man whose guidance and knowledge of the fashion market will insure it. She'll be able to concentrate on the creative process, and you will handle the business, marketing, and presentation of the beauty she creates.”  
  
Nigel smirked. "No more cheesy monster suits and bad haunted house sets?” he asked playfully.  
  
“Not unless you think it will sell several million dollars in product,” Miranda answered, returning the smirk. She smiled softly. “I don't have many people I care about, Nigel, but I fight for those few I do.”  
  
“You've spoken to Orla about this?” he asked.  
  
“I might have mentioned that you were interested in taking on greater challenges than you were finding as the art director of _Runway_ ,” Miranda answered.  
  
“And what might she know about the potential of my going to work for James Holt?” he asked, watching Miranda closely.  
  
Miranda shrugged as if the matter she discussed had no importance. “I may have said something to that effect. Hypothetically, I might even have suggested that it would be a good idea to approach you before James' show tomorrow because you might not be on the market afterward. It's even possible that she might have asked me to advise her as to what range of salary figures, total percentage perks, and corporate shares would make a viable offer if she approached you."  
  
“And you did so with the knowledge of what the total potential investment in her company is?” Nigel said incredulously.  
  
“As I said,” Miranda respond, “I fight for those I care for.” They stared at each other for a few silent moments while Miranda's words settled between them. Miranda saw her unvoiced apology accepted by the way Nigel's body language changed. She felt relief flow through her, knowing now that she could execute her plans without fear of losing her closest friend.  
  
“So,” Nigel said in a teasing voice, a large smile on his lips,, “you and Andy...”  
  
“Please, Nigel," Miranda interrupted, "you should know by now that I don't kiss and tell.” Miranda laughed, comforted when she heard Nigel joining in.  
  
***  
  
Friday morning found Danielle staked out at the local coffee shop not far from Jillian Hoffner's residence. She suspected from her surveillance the day before that the woman went to the coffee shop several times a day. Once she saw the woman enter, Danielle arranged to “accidentally” bump into her. After making a fuss about how clumsy she was, she insisted on buying Jillian's coffee by way of recompense. This got them to talking. Danielle could be very charming when she wanted to be, and consequently she was able to convince the woman to sit down at a table with her. In a short time the seemingly brainless woman she was with was confiding her life story. "Jillian, call me Jilli," had been taken care of by men her whole life. From the time she was seventeen and had run away from home she had used her good looks and her body to get whatever she wanted.  
  
"It was easy," she confided. "All you have to do is know when to act angry and when to screw their brains out, and you can get anything you want."  
  
Danielle laughingly agreed, and she confided that she too followed a similar life philosophy, though she admitted to her companion that she favored her own sex as “playmates.” She carefully brought the subject around to Jillian's latest conquest.  
  
Jilli laughingly told her how her “Irvy” was a teddy bear, easy as pie to manipulate. “He comes by for only a few hours twice a week. Tuesday and Thursday evenings,” Jillian confided. “He's pretty vanilla in what he wants, no real kinky stuff. I play bump and grind with him, and he pays all my bills and is helping me to get this great job. He even says he'd leave his wife for me if only all of the family money wasn't hers. But that's okay with me. I'm not really the marrying kind. I like variety too much. Never know when a richer and better looking mark is going to come along.”  
  
Danielle nodded, now having the confirmation she wanted as far as Jillian being the one who'd take over Runway, but it was evident that the woman didn't mentally have what it would take to run the magazine. Someone with vision would have to be near the forefront to guide her. And Danielle knew a way she could make sure she was that individual. “So," she asked, giving her hottest look at her companion and licking her lips, “you say you like variety. Ever tried a woman?”  
  
Jillian looked at Danielle speculatively and tittered.  
  
***  
  
Ralph Smither, some years ago, had gone into business for himself as a private investigator the day after he had reached his twenty years with the police force and had qualified for his pension. He'd worked for Millicent Darling's butler a year or so ago when the woman's long-time family retainer had hired him to check out the woman his employer had been dating. His target, Danielle Gold, had turned out to be a real player, stringing along several well-to-do women and getting everything she could out of each of them. He'd reported his findings to the man that had hired him, providing photographic evidence of Ms. Gold on dates with different women at a number of intimate locales. He'd thought that had been an end to it, but Ms. Darling had called him a few days ago and asked that he again take up surveillance on Ms. Gold. This time around he'd learned that Ms. Gold was, once again, dating more than one woman at a time. Her “main” squeeze appeared to be an exceptionally wealthy, young African-American woman. She had also managed a one-night stand with one of the women he'd linked her to during the first go round working for Millicent Darling's man servant. Now she'd picked up her newest mark after he'd spent yesterday watching her do surveillance and checking out the woman that was apparently her latest chosen prey.  
  
This time around he had hard proof in an indisputable form, enough so that Ms. Darling would have to sit up and take notice. This time, thanks to a raised shade on the ground floor and the fact that even in his overweight form he could manage some stealth, he had photographs of Danielle Gold involved in a sexual liaison with the blonde bimbo whom she apparently had been stalking.


	12. Chapter 12

Thursday, October 23rd, 2009  
  
The last scene in the first act of the play of the Six Sisters was on tap for tonight. Lily wasn't so much in favor of this particular scene because it involved a confrontation with Karen. With the demands of the con the Sisters were running, she and Karen hadn't seen each other in nearly a week. Late night phone calls were all they had shared in the way of contact, and it truly just wasn't enough in Lily's opinion. All Lily really wanted to do was hug Karen to her and smother her with kisses.  
  
The sight chosen to play out this scene was an intimate little cafe in Soho. Lily had picked Danielle up at her townhouse, promising her dinner and then an evening at one of the trendiest nightclubs in the city. Lily marveled at how easy it was for the Sisterhood to manipulate this woman who thought herself a master manipulator. The members of the Six Sisters that had been hurt by Danielle knew her well. They all had cause to want revenge. They had prepared Lily for how Danielle was likely to react in any given situation and how to respond to get Danielle exactly where she wanted her. The unexpected element was the fact that Lily had inadvertently changed the script by losing her temper. The result of this seemed to be Danielle responding to the more dominant Lily in an unexpected way. Lily was beginning to have real concerns that the woman the Sisterhood was conning might be developing real feelings for the faux persona that Lily was presenting.   
  
When Karen approached their table, Lily felt her body clench. She wanted to jump up and shout to the world that she was with the woman who approached. That she had fallen deeply in love with her.  
  
Danielle, as expected, rose and moved to meet the approaching woman before she could arrive at the table. Lily knew that Danielle wouldn't want a confrontation in front of her because things could be said that would likely raise embarrassing questions. The encounter that Lily witnessed out of her earshot was quiet, close, intimate. Lily felt jealousy flair in her chest. Her Karen had once loved this woman. If Danielle dropped the lawsuit and wanted Karen back, would she go? What had Lily and Karen had? A few days? A few meals together? A kiss on the cheek? Phone calls late at night? They had slept close together once on the night before the Sisterhood was born, but they'd never really physically touched beyond brief hugs and hand-holding. _It wasn't fair!_ Lily thought angrily, and she allowed these feelings to color her coming performance. She allowed the jealousy she felt for Karen's possible feelings for Danielle to propel her to her feet and stalk with purpose from the table toward the couple engaged in their social encounter.  
  
Lily couldn't hear what the two were saying to each other, but she knew well her part in this particular drama. One night recently she had gotten Danielle tipsy on expensive wine in front of the roaring fireplace at the penthouse and, playing the jealous lover, grilled her extensively about her previous lovers. Karen's name had come up as another woman whom she had "dated" but who wasn't "right" for her.  
  
Lily had spent most of the previous weeks dating this woman whose very presence she found difficult to bear. And here was her Karen, whom because of the con she had not been able to spend time with in the vulnerable, early part of their relationship. Anger swelled inside her. and she decided to make a statement. She stepped into the private circle of the two individuals and took Karen firmly by the arms, looking deeply into her eyes. "Mine!" she exclaimed. Letting go of Karen's upper arms, she grasped Danielle by the wrist and pulled her out of the restaurant. Internally she smiled because she had just told Karen exactly what was going on.  
  
“Jealous much?” Danielle said, laughing as Lily escorted her toward the parking lot.  
  
“You have no idea,” Lily hissed softly through clenched teeth. All in all, her strong emotion added more than enough realism to the scene the Sisters wanted Danielle to experience.   
  
They were almost to Lily's Bentley when Lily's cell phone rang. She answered as she always did, “Lily Freedman.”  
  
“Oh God,” Karen's quiet but urgent voice came from the other end of the line. “I am. I am yours. I can't wait anymore. Come to me tonight. When she goes home, come see me. Please? I don't want to be without you anymore!”  
  
Lily had to stop herself from grinning ear to ear; she had an audience after all. “Yes,” she said in her clipped and formal Mirandaese. “I can be there in about an hour.” She disconnected the call and looked at Danielle. “I'm afraid something has come up with work. I'm going to have to go to the office,” she said, her tone feigning regret.   
  
***

Fifteen minutes later Lily had dropped Danielle off at her condo and driven several blocks away before pulling over and stopping. She quickly got her cell phone out of her purse and dialed one of the numbers she had memorized as part of preparation for the endeavor she was engaged in. “Millicent? It's Lily.” She said into the cell-phone's mouthpiece. “Do you still have that private eye tailing Danielle?”  
  
“Yes,” Millicent replied. “The poor man is still traipsing all over the city following her around, but we need to know what she's up to all the time. Especially now.”  
  
“I need a favor,” Lily said.  
  
“Name it, and it's yours,” Millicent responded instantly.  
  
“I'm on my way over to Karen's. We…we need some time together,” Lily said softly.  
  
“Oh!” Millicent said excitedly. “Oh, that's wonderful! I know just what you need. I'll have our man watching Danielle call if she comes anywhere close to Karen's.”  
  
A moment later Lily hung up the phone and resumed her journey, feeling very grateful for having such wonderful friends.  
  
***   
  
Millicent's private eye, Ralph Smither, sat in his car outside Danielle Gold's condo. Fifteen minutes ago Danielle had been dropped off by one of the women she was stringing along. She'd gone inside, and the light in her bedroom window had been turned on. Ten minutes after that it went out. Ralph sighed softly. He was going on thirty-six hours straight of surveillance. He desperately needed to take a leak and then a large coffee to help stay awake. There was a fast food joint less than three minutes from here. Total round trip time under fifteen minutes. As it appeared his quarry had bedded down for the night, he decided to chance it.

***   
  
Millicent made the necessary calls to her private investigator and instructed him to inform her should Danielle Gold go anywhere near Karen's address. Ralph told her that he had left Ms. Gold apparently going to bed about ten minutes ago, and he would be back on surveillance within a few minutes' time. Satisfied, she then went to her computer and looked up a local all-night grocery store near Karen's home. After confirming that they would indeed deliver, she had a bottle of the finest chilled champagne the store had to offer and some fresh strawberries sent to Karen's house. Hanging up the phone, she turned to Cynthia, who sat on the couch. “Well, it's about time,” Millicent said, smiling at the other woman.  
  
***   
  
Lily approached Karen's neighborhood with some trepidation. She had little doubt that they would end up making love that night. It had been some time since she had made love with anyone, and she definitely wanted the first time with Karen to be perfect. She pulled into a convenience store, hoping they'd have some kind of fresh flowers. Just inside the door, alone in a bucket of water, was one sad-looking bouquet of daisies. Not wanting to arrive empty-handed on such an important evening, Lily lifted the bunch of flowers from the bucket and paid for them. Rushing back to her car, she continued her journey to Karen's home.  
  
***   
  
Danielle strolled out the door and got into the waiting taxi. Street parking was quite limited in Karen's neighborhood and always a terrible bother, so she had decided not to take her car. Everything was going so well. Lily had truly shown her hand this evening, shown that she was incredibly jealous and that she considered Danielle hers. Danielle smiled evilly at the thought. Danielle might be very confused about her feelings for Lily, but she was certain of one thing: she was her own woman. No one owned her. It was time to make some choices, and she had decided to play the game out. She'd go to Karen's, complaining of how badly she'd been hurt by everything that had happened. She' d offer to dismiss the lawsuit and then she would seduce the woman. Once she was nominally in control of Karen again, she would use that to her advantage in playing Lily and making the woman give her exactly what she wanted. This coupled with her new-found influence over Jillian Hoffer should skyrocket her to her rightful place, a controlling position in the greatest fashion magazine in the world.  
  
***   
  
Ralph Smither returned to his place sitting beside a fire hydrant. As he was in the car and had been on "the job" as a police officer for many years, he was comfortable that should a police cruiser come by and stop to ticket him, he could flash his P.I. license and avoid a ticket by explaining that he was working surveillance. The light in Danielle's bedroom as well as the lights in the rest of the condo were off, and Danielle's car was still parked against the curb where it had been when he had left. He settled in to sip his coffee and fight the boredom of a long night of nothing happening.  
  
***  
  
Lily, hand trembling, rang Karen's doorbell. The door opened and Karen stood before her in a silky robe. Lily started to stammer something when Karen, without words, took her by the wrist and pulled her inside the house. The door slammed behind her, and she suddenly found herself up against it, Karen's demanding lips on hers. Soon Karen's robe was lying on the floor while Karen was dressed in nothing but a lacy bra and panties. Her nimble fingers were making quick work of the buttons of Lily's blouse when Lily remembered the bouquet of flowers in her hand. She started to raise it and stuttered, “For...for...yo...” but Karen's lips and teeth were doing unbelievable things to her neck. The flowers fell to the floor from a hand now busy clutching Karen to her as she moaned at the rush of arousal and feelings she was experiencing.  
  
“Upstairs to my bedroom,” Karen husked. “My first time with you isn't going to be against a damned door.” She again grabbed Lily's wrist and practically dragged her up the stairs.  
  
Within moments they were both naked and intertwined on the bed, a tangle of hands, and fingers, and lips. Overwhelmed and nearly drunk with all the new tastes and sensations, their hearts beat and their bodies pulsed together as if they were one. That was the moment when the doorbell intruded. “Oh, God,” Lily moaned, “ignore it; they'll go away.”  
  
It was not to be. The doorbell rang again, longer more demanding.  
  
“I have to answer it,” Karen said, reluctantly pulling away and scrambling for her robe. “It must be some kind of problem, Nobody rings my bell this time of night.” Throwing on the robe she left Lily panting on the bed and hurried down the stairs. Wrapping her robe around her, she angrily threw open the door without even checking the peep hole. There on her doorstep stood Danielle, smiling.  
  
“Hello, Karen,” Danielle said softly, offering up a bottle of dark rum. “I thought we might talk a bit.”  
  
Karen glared at the woman. “What are you doing here, Danielle?” she replied coolly. “I know my lawyer said I wasn't to meet with you without him present. I imagine your lawyer suggested the same thing to you.”  
  
“Yes, but what do lawyers know?” Danielle answered contemptuously. “After I ran into you this evening, I had to come and see you. I...I've missed you, Karen. I'm lost without you,” she said beguilingly. “I'm going to talk to my lawyer in the morning, drop your name from the lawsuit.”  
  
Karen gazed disbelievingly at the woman on her doorstep. Her grip on the front of her robe tightened, holding it more securely closed .“You have to be freaking kidding me,” she said quietly. “You upend my whole life, cut my heart out, threaten my job, and then expect that bringing a bottle of booze and shaking your hips in my face will make everything right? Now what? Am I'm supposed to throw open the door and take you back?!”  
  
“It's not like that, Karen,” Danielle replied, cajoling. “I...I made a mistake. I was angry because of Andy Sachs taking my place. I know now that wasn't your fault. I know that those orders came down from above you. You and I are good together. We're fantastic in the sack. Let me in, and I'll remind you of just how good we are.”  
  
At that moment a man walked up the walkway. “Excuse me,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt. Is one of you Ms. Karen Wilson?” he asked.  
  
“I'm Karen Wilson,” Karen answered.  
  
“Delivery for you, ma'am,” the young man answered. “Strawberries and Champagne.”  
  
Danielle frowned as Karen smiled dreamily. _Champagne and strawberries. Who's sending her these?!_ Danielle's anger heightened as she watched the ridiculous expression on Karen's face while accepting the bag from the delivery person.  
  
Danielle looked hard at Karen. “Sachs is in Paris,” she said coldly, looking the woman in the thin silk robe up and down. “And you're not in your usual flannel pajamas. Getting your freak on, girlfriend?” she demanded, her tone accusatory.  
  
Karen looked at her archly and said, “None of your damned business,” very succinctly. “We're through, Danielle. I wouldn't have you back for all the tea in China. You want to drop the lawsuit, that's your business. You want to sue me? Sue and be damned. Now get off my property, and stay the hell away from me.” She turned on her heel and, stepping through the front door, slammed it in Danielle's face.  
  
The young man who made the delivery of Champagne and strawberries smiled. “Guess she told you,” he needled.  
  
“Mind your own business!” Danielle snarled at him and stalked off to find a taxi.  
  
***   
  
Karen stepped back through her bedroom door and glanced to where Lily still lay enticingly naked on the bed. “You'll never believe who that just was,” Karen said, her voice shaking slightly. “Where is your car parked?”  
  
“Two blocks over in that parking garage,” Lily responded, her look becoming concerned. “There wasn't anything available on the street.” She sat up, pulling at the coverlet to protectively cover her nakedness. “Why? What happened?”  
  
“Nothing,” Karen responded, walking toward the bed and shedding her robe. “If your car is in the parking garage, then Danielle will never see it, so no problem.” She smiled at the women whose body was now playing peek-a-boo from the edges of the bed coverlet. She reached out and toyingly pulled on an edge of the bedspread. Lily squealed playfully as her covering was stolen from her. Karen licked her lips and pounced.   
  
“Let's not think about her anymore,” Lily whispered. “You're the only one I want to think about. The only one I'll be with...”  
  
 _The perfect girlfriend,_ Karen thought, with true hope blooming in her breast as her lips passionately found Lily's.  
  
***   
  
Danielle was furious. _How dare Karen move on! she thought angrily. And so quickly! Not only was she sleeping with Sachs, she was also playing the field with someone else while Sachs was in Paris! Well, I'm not going to stand for this! She thinks she can do this to ME?! I'll show her. I'll sue her ass off, and then when I'm with Lily, I'll find a way to let Sachs know that Karen was cheating on her!_  
  
She strode angrily to a nearby intersection where she would have a better chance of catching a cab. Searching through her pocketbook she found her cell phone and, searching the device's memory, started a series of calls. Over the next half hour she contacted all those in the media who still owed her favors. She told each of them the same thing. Tomorrow morning at 7:30 AM she would be in front of the Elias-Clarke building for a press conference. She had information that was going to turn the fashion world on its ear.  
  
***   
  
Saturday, October 24th, 2009  
  
Danielle Gold stood before the cameras and microphones for the press conference that had cost her the remainder of favors owed to her and in front of the handful of people she could still bully with her quickly diminishing reputation as someone with power in this town. This was it; she was going for broke. Breaking this story would save her spiraling, out of control career. With this scoop she could enter Runway under the new management with her head up, recognized as one of the movers and shakers in the fashion world. And with the positive spin she was going to feed to the press about the new _Runway_ Editor-in-Chief, the woman would realize she was a staunch ally and accept her as a close personal and professional adviser. In addition, she would have Lily to help smooth the transition into her new position. And then, then she could concentrate on making sure that she and Lily could be happy together.   
  
It was strange to be thinking of spending the rest of her life with a single partner, but who better than someone that could take care of her? She could lay down the burden of looking out for herself since Lily was strong enough and wealthy enough to look out for both of them. For once Danielle could count on being taken care of in the manner to which she wanted to become accustomed to, and all she had to do for that to happen was to make Lily happy. Making another woman happy was something that Danielle had perfected after much practice.   
  
She stood a short distance from the podium from where she would make her announcement, somewhat shielded from the eyes of the gathering press. She was slightly nervous because she had realized that Lily might be upset by this story breaking prior to Elias-Clarke's media specialists making their announcement. But Danielle was fairly certain that she could explain to Lily that she had come across the story and that it was her duty as a journalist to report the newsworthy event.  
  
Once she was sure that the crowd of reporters was as large as it was likely to get, she approached the podium. She stood dramatically behind the many microphones for a moment, looking down and shuffling papers as if putting them into order. She looked up into the television cameras with a serious face and began to speak.  
  
“As you likely know,” she said to the assembled reporters, “I am pursuing a lawsuit against my employer, The New York Times, and my editor, Ms. Karen Wilson, because of sexual harassment perpetrated against me in the workplace. I am about to break a major story, but I want it to be clearly noted that I took this story to The New York Times first, and they were not willing to run it. I believe that, that decision was made because of the desire of the paper's management to silence me due to my standing up to them. Well, I will not be silenced about a story as important as this one just because _The Times_ is unwilling to go public with a piece of news I have acquired.”  
  
She took a big breath before continuing in a confident voice.“A confidential source close to the management of the Elias-Clarke Publishing empire has informed me that Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of _Runway_ magazine for more than two decades, will be terminated from that position prior to her return from Paris Fashion Week tomorrow. She will be replaced by a woman named Jillian Hoffner, a young woman whom Irv Ravitz, the C.E.O. of Elias-Clarke, has been mentoring for some time and personally grooming to replace Miranda Priestly as the editor-in-chief...."  
  
***   
  
“Roger, you've got to pull the press conference piece. You can't run it. Miranda Priestly isn't about to be deposed,” Karen said emphatically, standing before her boss' impressive desk.  
  
“Karen, I know that we've had difficulties with Danielle,” Roger replied. “But this story is huge. Miranda Priestly has been on the top of the publishing industry for two decades. She's a power broker in this city. Elias-Clarke's firing her is news. I consider Miranda a friend, and as distasteful as I find it, we have a responsibility to inform the general public of newsworthy events."  
  
Karen shook her head vehemently. “Roger, Danielle has been the victim of a con job,” she exclaimed. “If you run the article on her press conference, you're going to be retracting it tomorrow when Elias-Clarke goes public and shoots the story down.”  
  
Roger looked at her speculatively. “You seem awfully sure of your information,” he said. “I'd hate to be wrong on this. The potential for embarrassment if we don't run it and you're wrong...”  
  
“I'm part of the con, Roger,” she blurted out. "It's what I have been doing with my time since I've been suspended." Then Karen fell silent, knowing that her job had already been hanging by a thread.  
  
Roger looked at her for a moment. “Maybe you'd better start at the beginning,” he said softly, reaching for the drawer where he kept his bottle of antacids.  
  
Karen sighed. “A number of women that Danielle had wronged got together, including me, and we decided to get even. We figured that the only way to really hurt her was to make her look like a fool publicly...”  
  
***   
  
Sunday, October 25th, 2009  
  
Miranda had to admit that she had been amused by Emily's solution to the fashion faux pas presented by the hideous color of the cast her leg was encased in. The clever girl had covered the cast with a leg warmer in a color complementary to whatever outfit she was wearing. To this she added scarves in varying, contrasting colors tied about the leg warmer. The overall effect was rather anachronistic, reminiscent of Germanic fashion of the 16th-century called puff and slash, but Emily's clever use of color made the display aesthetically pleasing.  
  
On the way to Charles De Gaulle airport, Miranda watched with some amusement from her limousine window as a woman on the streets of Paris, mimicking Emily's new fashion, window shopped. The subject of Miranda's gaze did not limp as Emily did in her cast, so Miranda surmised that the woman had actually padded one of her legs to match the bulk that Emily had displayed due to her cast in press photographs of fashion week events. It was a curious choice to Miranda, but there it was.  
  
Miranda surprised Emily by instructing her to exchange seats with Andrea when they were boarding the plane. Miranda nearly smiled as Emily struggled to not protest, obviously just catching herself before objecting. Sighing when Miranda saw Emily attempting to situate herself in such a way as to still be available for any tasks she might assign, Miranda told her assistant that she was so pleased with her performance during fashion week that Emily was not only to take the flight off but that she would not be expected back at _Runway_ until midday Tuesday. Miranda, allowing a devilish grin to surface briefly on her face, dismissed the bemused assistant with a softly uttered, "That's all."   
  
The flight home from Paris was, for Miranda, almost as pleasant as the flight going there, but it lacked the illicit excitement of Miranda and Andrea's high altitude tryst. Still, Andrea sat beside her for the flight. They dined together on regrettable airline food, and Andrea entertained her with amusing stories of her childhood. Later, Andrea slept, her head on Miranda's shoulder. Miranda sat and considered the beautiful head on her shoulder as she enjoyed a cup of truly bad airline coffee. Searching her memory she realized that she couldn't remember a flight where she had been more content or at peace.  
  
Walking through the terminal at LaGuardia with a number of _Runway_ employees, Miranda chanced to see another woman who was wearing a variation on the theme of Emily's cast covering. It amused Miranda to see Emily look down guiltily and pointedly ignore the sight.  
  
There were two additional sightings of Emily's fashion creation from the back of the limousine. Miranda smiled evilly at the woman seated across from her. “Well,” she sighed, her eyes fixed on the English woman, “I suppose it was inevitable.” She turned to Nigel where he sat beside her. “Pull the best pictures of Emily from fashion week. This is obviously a trend, and we need to be on the crest of the wave. Three pages in the next Runway to publish. Lead with Emily, and find out which of our highest rated designers are running with the design. Prepare a list of trendy actresses as potential models to model what the designers have to show _Runway_. Final choice of designer and the actress to do the shoot is to be made by Emily.” Miranda's eyes again swept over the shocked Brit. “You did well in Paris, Emily. Your post-graduate education has begun. Do not disappoint me. That's all.” she said, turning back to look out the window at the passing streets.  
  
***   
  
Irv Ravitz was a man unconcerned with trivialities such as incorporating corporate cost savings by using commercial airlines even though he inflicted such constraints on his subordinates. He had taken the corporate jet to Paris in the latter days of fashion week. His glorious plan to divest Miranda Priestly of her position of editor-in-chief had, unfortunately, been a bust. Miranda had out-maneuvered him and gathered enough leverage that she had bested him in the latest skirmish of their ongoing conflict. His defeat notwithstanding, it had been his intention to stay in Paris for a few more days and collect what Jacqueline Follet owed him. And she owed him a great deal. He had backed her for the supreme position at American _Runway_ , and she knew that she was his choice to replace Miranda when he finally did manage to orchestrate her fall. That meant that Jacqueline was very interested in keeping him interested in her. He had heard from other male power brokers that Jacqueline was a wild freak in bed, and Irv was looking forward to experiencing her bag of tricks.   
  
He was in Jacqueline's luxury apartment in the Montmatre section of the city. They had shared a bottle of wine, and Jacqueline just had retired to slip into something more comfortable while Irv turned on the television for a moment. To his surprise, he saw a woman speaking to gathered news reporters in front of the Elias-Clarke building. His French language skills were poor, but the woman on the screen was speaking in English and being translated by one of the French news commentators. His plans for the next few days changed suddenly when the woman giving the press conference announced that he had terminated Miranda Priestly. He was momentarily confused, as he hadn't planned to arrange that particular press release until after he had actually accomplished the deed. Then to his horror he heard the woman say that he had supposedly named his latest mistress, Jillian Hoffer, to replace Miranda in the editor-in-chief position at Runway. A more ridiculous thing he couldn't imagine. He was working to help get Jillian her dream job. She loved the idea of being close to fame and had a passion for classical music. He was close to finishing negotiations which would assure her a position as a personal assistant to a famous conductor at the Met. He had serious reservations about her ability to handle a position as simple as that. _Jillian overseeing the operations of Elias-Clarke's flagship publication?_ He thought. _A trained monkey could do a better job!_  
  
Irv was beside himself as he rushed to Orly Airport where the company learjet was already being re-fueled and a flight plan to New York was being filed after his frantic telephoned instructions to the pilot. He was certain that his wife knew on some level that he had engaged in affairs during their marriage, but she'd never had a name of one of the women he was sleeping with. Now, thanks to some woman he'd never heard of before, his wife of near forty years would have an actual target to aim her anger at. This was going to complicate his life greatly because, although few people knew it, the opulent lifestyle that Irv enjoyed was actually built on the wealth of his wife's family. Most of the major assets the couple owned were in his wife's name. He was panicked and uncertain of what to do, knowing that his Hannah was likely waiting for him behind the door of their home with an expensive vase ready to hurl at his head. She was uncannily accurate when angry and throwing expensive items. But there was nothing to be done now other than to go home and face the music, spinning the story in the best way he could.  
  
The ride to the airport, the flight home, and the drive to his residence were the longest of his life.  
  
Upon arriving home Irv saw that there was another town car in the large driveway. Glancing at the bumper as he headed for the front door, he saw the familiar sticker allowing parking in the garage that served elite Elias-Clarke Publishing employees.  
  
Entering the front sitting room of his home, it was as if all of his nightmares had come true. There sat his Hannah, apparently serving tea to Miranda Priestly. Irv could not imagine what Miranda Priestly was doing in his house, especially after his failed coup attempt in Paris. He was utterly certain that he was doomed. He stepped toward the two women. His wife looked up and smiled at him.   
  
And he felt his entire world shift off its axis.   
  
“Ahhhh, Irv, there you are...” Miranda said smiling. “I was just telling Hannah about the ridiculousness of that silly woman's press conference today. I know that you didn't want your lovely wife to know about what you've been up to, and I know you would have preferred to keep it a secret, but I felt it necessary to tell her after that woman so slandered your good name this morning. All that nonsense about what you've been doing with your Tuesday and Thursday evenings...”  
  
“You...you...told her what I've been doing...,” he stammered, feeling his chest tighten. Maybe if he were truly lucky, the pain would prove to be a massive coronary and he'd be dead before he hit the floor.  
  
Miranda nodded. "I'm sorry Irv, but a wife needs to know things like this, especially when her loving husband has been lied about. I told her that we've been working at the office on the new fine arts magazine that you are dedicating to her and her love of the arts. ”  
  
Hanna was sitting on the sofa, crying softly. Irv had been married to her long enough to know that they were tears of joy. He looked at Miranda Priestly, his sworn enemy, a constant thorn in his side. She had saved him after he had tried to usurp everything she held dear. She sat there with a cup of tea in her hand and continued to spin a fantasy about the work that they'd been doing to prepare a proposal to the board of Elias-Clarke. A magazine that would cover that which his wife was truly passionate about. As he accepted a cup of tea from his smiling wife's hand, he began to reevaluate who his friends and enemies were.   
  
***   
  
"I'm afraid that there isn't going to be a job for you at _Runway,_ ” Lily said quietly as she stood on the balcony of the penthouse apartment with a cocktail in hand, enjoying the unusually warm October evening.  
  
Danielle stopped sipping her drink and turned, looking angrily at Lily. “What do you mean no job? You agreed that I was the perfect fit for the new position of columnist and fashion adviser to _Runway’s_ Editor-in-Chief that's being created.” Her voice took on a whining quality. “You promised me...”  
  
Lily sipped her drink as if she didn't have a care in the world and gazed out at the beautiful sunset over Central Park. “Well, there's the problem you see. I don't have the authority to give you the job because I don't work for _Runway,_.”  
  
“I know you don't work for Runway directly, that you're contracted as a consultant to Elias-Clarke. But you do have the authority. The file said...” Danielle stammered, suddenly on uncertain ground with this woman she was sure she had wrapped securely around her little finger.  
  
“File, Danielle?” Lily said, turning amused eyes on the woman. “Would that be the file you bought from the mole you had in Natalie Strothers' public relations firm?”  
  
Danielle shook her head, “I just...I needed to check you out. You can never be too careful whom you give your heart to,” she improvised, beginning to reel from the unexpected turn of events.  
  
Lily laughed bitterly. “How many women should have done that with you, Danielle?” she replied viciously. “How many women have you lied to about your feelings so you could take as much as you could get before you crushed their dreams of being loved?”  
  
“But I love you!” Danielle insisted. “I'm ready to give myself to you! I can rock your world in bed like nobody else ever has!” She glanced around. “Even if you can't help me get the job at Elias-Clarke, you can still take care of me. You obviously have money. I mean you live here and drive a Bentley.”  
  
Lily smiled a small, wicked smile. “About that,” she said, mock regret lacing her tone. “I don't live here. “  
  
“You don't... live here?” Danielle parroted, trying frantically to process what she was being told.  
  
“Lord, no,” Lily answered, again pausing to sip her drink. “I've got an efficiency studio fifth-floor walk up in the East Village. I can barely afford it on my salary.”  
  
“Your...salary...What is it you do?” Danielle demanded.  
  
“I work as a sales person in a small Soho art gallery. By the time I pay my bills at the end of the month, I'm lucky if I have two nickels to rub together. No. A friend owns this place. Owns the car, too. She lent them to me for a little while so I could take care of some business.”  
  
“Who'd lend you an apartment like this just so you could lie to me?!” Danielle demanded stridently.  
  
“That would be me,” said Millicent, stepping from the shadows of the balcony garden.  
  
Danielle had to look twice, so much had the once mousy girl changed. Before her stood a truly beautiful and well-dressed, young woman. “Millicent? Is that you?” Danielle, confused, asked.  
  
Milli pirouetted, showing off her finery like a kid on Christmas morning. “Do you like it, Danielle? One of my friends helped me pick it out.”  
  
“I don't know what's going on here,” Danielle growled, “but we both know you don't have any friends. I was the best thing that ever happened to you.”  
  
“You're wrong, Danielle,” Milli answered, the strength in her voice surprising the woman. “In fact, after tonight I'm going to forgive you because I have you in a way to thank for my new life and my new friends.”  
  
Danielle snorted. “Well, you can have your friends. It's not like you'll ever have another lover,” she replied, her tone caustically condescending and nasty.  
  
Cynthia stepped into the light beside Milli from where she had stood listening while in the shadow of the garden. “I don't know about that, Danielle,” she offered, taking Millicent by the hand. “Milli and I are taking things slowly because we both want to be sure it's not just a rebound thing after what you did to us. But we're dating, and so far it's going well. When we both agree that the time is right, we'll take that next step.”  
  
“Oh! So my lawyer is involved in this amateur conspiracy against me? Aren't you violating the ethics you hold so dear? You couldn't pursue my lawsuit because of ethics, but now you can violate my lawyer-client privilege?” Danielle accused heatedly.  
  
“I haven't violated privilege, Danielle. I have, however, gotten a little of my own back,” Cynthia smiled.  
  
“Don't forget me,” Natalie said stepping through the French doors onto the balcony. “Did you like the files I created for you, Danielle? God, I wish the Lily we created was real. She'd be a hell of a client!”  
  
“You knew I had someone in your office selling me information,” Danielle snarled.  
  
“It took a while to figure out who it was, but I managed it,” Natalie replied. “Then I turned him on you. You got exactly what we wanted you to have.”  
  
Danielle glanced accusingly at Lily. “And what's your beef with me? Or are you just some whore that they paid to try and bring me down?”  
  
Lily stiffened and took half a step forward. “I liked my solution to your being a problem better than what the Sisterhood came up with,” she said in a dangerous tone, “but my boo said she wanted it this way. Personally, I just wanted to kick your ass.”  
  
“She could do it, too,” Natalie offered gleefully. “I've been doing her real file for my public relations firm. She was a champion kick-boxer in college.”  
  
“Were you really?” Karen asked, stepping onto the balcony from inside the apartment.  
  
Lily shrugged. "Yeah,” she answered softly. “I wasn't out yet when I started college, and it was a rough time. It started out as a way of relieving pressure. Then I found out I was really good at it.”  
  
Karen smiled at Lily. “So you were serious about kicking her ass.”  
  
Lily shrugged again. “I was serious about kicking her in the head several times. I thought I'd likely get to kick her in the ass when she was on her way down,” Lily deadpanned.  
  
Danielle glared at Karen. “So now you're fucking this whore and Sachs, too?” she demanded.  
  
“Sachs?!" Karen replied, shocked. “Lord, Danielle, Sachs is the last person I'd be sleeping with. One, being with you taught me to never, ever, screw around with somebody I'm working with ever again. And two, I wouldn't dare piss off the woman she is with.”  
  
"And who is so high and mighty that you'd be that afraid of her? Because I know the only way you're getting laid is if someone can get something from you in exchange!” Danielle shrieked.  
  
Miranda stepped from the shadows of the balcony garden. Her demeanor screamed of cold, calculated power. Her voice was almost a whisper, forcing those present to listen for it and making it far more threatening. “You have always been a fool, Danielle. I could tolerate that. Your ridiculous stance on fashion, while distasteful, allowed me to refute your ideas and reinforce the standards of good taste that _Runway_ has always represented during my tenure as editor-in-chief. That was business. What I could not tolerate was your unwarranted attack on a woman who had never wronged you. When you tried to derail my interview with Andrea Sachs, you made the enmity between us _very_ personal.”  
  
“Ha! So the fallen queen comes to reign over her court of losers!” Danielle exclaimed. "How's it feel to be tossed out of your precious position as editor-in-chief like the no-talent hack that you are? You and Sachs deserve each other! Irv Ravitz finally kicked you to the curb!”  
  
“Tossed out?” Miranda asked exuding innocence and again demonstrating to the gathered Sisters that perhaps she missed her true calling on the stage. “Dear girl,” she said slowly and carefully as if speaking to a particularly dense child, “Irv and I are going to be addressing the press together in front of Elias-Clarke tomorrow morning right where you gave your silly little press conference. There, we will refute your ridiculous claims and announce that any schism you posed between us is imaginary. We will also announce that the Tuesday and Thursday meetings you alleged between Irv and this woman you suggested he was replacing me with were quite impossible because Irv and I have been meeting those evenings. You see Danielle, my dear friend Irv and I are deeply involved in a joint project to bring a new fine arts magazine to life at Elias-Clarke. Creation of a new magazine is a complex project. It's been quite a grind for Irv and I, getting ready to pitch the concept to the board of directors."  
  
“New magazine? But the file...” Danielle said, her demeanor clearly showing that her world was crumbling around her. “You...you conned me...”  
  
“Just like you did us, Danielle,” Natalie said gleefully. “How's it feel?”  
  
Danielle looked to Lily. “I'm in love with you,” she whispered.  
  
Lily shook her head. “You're in love with an image in your head. The Lily you met isn't real. She's just a character I was playing to teach you a lesson. What I did to you, you did to a lot of other women. Learn from this, Danielle. Being betrayed by someone you love hurts like hell,” she said gently.  
  
Danielle looked frantically around the room, her expression blank, not focusing on any of the gathered women. Her demeanor took on quality of a trapped animal. “You think you've beaten me?” she demanded, her tone trying for arrogant and not quite managing it. “I'm the greatest fashion journalist in the history of the world. I don't need any of you! I was the best thing to ever happen to all of you. Without me you're nothing!”  
  
Miranda looked pityingly at the egomaniacal woman. “You're through in journalism, Danielle,” she answered in her terribly quiet _Runway_ voice. “There's not a reputable media outlet in the world that will touch you after a gaffe like this. I would suggest you look for a new line of work,” she continued inexorably.  
  
Danielle's eyes fixed on Karen. “I may not be able to get to you, Lily, you damn bitch whore. But I can still crush your girlfriend! My lawsuit will...”  
  
Cynthia broke out laughing. “Danielle, your lawsuit won't go anywhere. It's a non-starter. You have nothing in the way of a case. There is no way that any reasonable judge or jury would find in your favor.” She wiped a tear of laughter from her eye and made a sweeping gesture around the circle of Sisters. “There's enough testimony right in this room to show a pattern of behavior that would invalidate your claims. And I'll bet that the lawyer Miranda recommended to Karen will be able to find a few more individuals who would willingly testify. I know who you're using as your lawyer because his office contacted me requesting the preliminary work I had done on the case. I know what he charges an hour. I also know that he's not terribly scrupulous in his dealings with clients. He has a reputation for telling clients they have a case when they don't. He strings them along as long as he can to keep the money coming in. Then drops them when they can't pay anymore. Cut your losses, or he'll bankrupt you before the case ever gets in front of a judge.”  
  
“I don't have to listen to this!” Danielle shrieked. “I'm smarter than all of you combined! I'll get even with all of you!” She turned and stalked through the French doors that led into the penthouse, when Miranda spoke again in that dreadfully quiet tone that forced people to listen.  
  
“If I were you Danielle, I would leave New York and look for another line of work. I've put the word out on you among those in publishing that I have any influence with. I fear that you may find some small difficulty finding employment in your chosen profession this side of the Mississippi River.”   
  
Danielle paled and then, sweeping angrily into the penthouse, grabbed her coat from where it lay on the back of a couch. She slammed the front door behind her on the way out.  
  
“Well,” Natalie said, “That wasn't quite as satisfying as I'd hoped.”  
  
Milli nodded. "She's really a sad, little woman when you think about it.”  
  
Miranda sighed softly. “I think we're through here,” she offered quietly. “I'm going to go home. Andrea is taking care of my girls. God only knows what she's feeding them.”  
  
Lily wrapped her arm more tightly around Karen and glanced at her watch. “Andy? At this time of night?” She smiled wickedly. “You can be sure it has both too much caffeine and too much sugar in it.”   
  
Miranda sagged a little. “What have I gotten myself into?” she whispered, the despair in her voice offset by the small smile gracing her lips.


	13. Epilogue

  
  
Saturday, October 2nd, 2010 (Almost a year later)  
  
“Andrea, if you do not quit what you are doing right now and get cleaned up, we are going to be late!” Miranda said. “And you _know_ how I feel about being late.”   
  
Andy was out of breath and concentrating on the huge, wall-mounted entertainment screen. Her feet moved in complex patterns as she worked to keep up with the newest Wii dance game entitled _Just Dance_ , which wouldn't even be available to the general public for another month.  
  
The twins, sweaty and on the sidelines, watched the screen intently, looking for the signal that Andy had misstepped. “Mom! This is the dance off!” Caroline insisted. “If we win Andy has to take us to opening night for part one of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows!_ ”  
  
“And if I win, they have to do my chores for two weeks,” Andy said. “So don't distract me!” she said, her feet moving on the mat and her score rising to where she and the twins were again virtually even after Cassidy's last round.  
  
“Andrea,” Miranda said, her voice falling to the dangerous, quiet tone she used when she was becoming aggravated. “You are standing for Lily as best man in her wedding. We are due to be at the service at seven sharp.”  
  
“What time is it, anyway?” Andy panted, Miranda's tone not seeming to affect her, her eyes still glued to the TV screen.  
  
“Going on five-thirty,” Miranda deadpanned.  
  
“Oh. My. God!” Andy stammered and stumbled, ending her chance to run the score up and win the game this round. She stood there, sweat soaking through her thin T-shirt and dripping from her face.   
  
Miranda was always surprised at the times she found Andrea the sexiest. The times when her body demanded that she have the younger woman. This was one of those times. Andy looked wide-eyed with panic as she spoke to the girls. “I know I promised that we'd finish this today, but you'll have to forgive me. I didn't realize we'd been at it so long! Lily will kill me if I'm late!” She practically flew from the room, heading for the bedroom she and Miranda had shared for the last six months.  
  
Miranda glanced at her two beautiful daughters. “You should turn off your game and get ready, too. We have to leave as soon as Andrea is showered and dressed,” she said smiling. “Make sure you have your overnight bags ready and with you. Roy will be picking you up and taking you to your friend's house for the sleepover she's having as soon as the wedding ceremony is over. I'm sure you'll have a more enjoyable time being with your friends rather than at a wedding reception.” The twins scampered off to do as their mother had bid. She glanced at her watch. Knowing how quickly Andrea could shower and dress in the mornings for work, she was confident that there was time enough to soothe the hunger that a sweaty Andrea had aroused in her before they would have to leave. A woman on a mission, Miranda left to join her lover in the shower.  
  
***

The venue that Lily and Karen had chosen for their wedding ceremony was a beautiful, old colonial house overlooking the Hudson River in Weehawken, New Jersey. It had been built prior to the year nineteen-hundred, and after falling in love with it the first time they had seen it, the couple had purchased it to be their home. The property had been listed as distressed when they had bought it. They had excitedly thrown a housewarming, and Miranda, quite truthfully, had left that party with huge misgivings, worrying that her friends had been duped into buying a property in such disrepair. Andrea, however, had only commented that Lily liked to fix things.  
  
Now Miranda stood looking around in amazement. Granted, the yard was still a barren wasteland, but she could see the newly installed, brick retaining walls of what would be gardens this next growing season, and the old growth trees on the property has seen the attentions of a skilled arborist. The repairs and the paint job on the outside of the house made it one of the gems of the neighborhood. The transformation inside was even more amazing. Where sagging plaster and exposed pipes and wires had represented the amount of work needed, now a beautiful home existed. The front room had been transformed into a place worthy for a couple in love to marry.  
  
A middle-aged, African-American woman approached Miranda and asked if she was really Miranda Priestly. Miranda thought the question ludicrous, but she suspected that the woman asking was Lily's mother. Miranda was aware that Lily had walked a hard road after coming out of the closet during her senior year of college. Her parents were very religious, and their religious beliefs did not allow for a gay daughter. Last Christmas Lily had taken Karen home to introduce the woman to her parents.  
  
The story went that they had received a cold reception from Lily's family until Karen caught Lily's father alone. She showed him the ring she had purchased for his daughter and informed him that it was her intention to ask Lily for her hand in marriage. She asked for his blessing and mentioned grandchildren. Lily called it her Christmas miracle because her father not only accepted Karen as of that moment, but gave his blessing for the nuptials. He, at this moment, was upstairs, preparing to stand beside Karen in what was traditionally known as the Maid of Honor role.  
  
Miranda smiled at the woman questioning her and admitted she was indeed Miranda Priestly, spending the next fifteen minutes dealing with an excited fan who hadn't really believed that her daughter actually knew, much less was friends with, so famous a woman. Miranda derailed the woman's exclamations when she introduced her two daughters, casually dropping the fact that they considered Lily their "aunt."  
  
Slipping away from the woman, who was excitedly talking to her "great nieces," Miranda headed for the bar. Andrea was upstairs helping Lily into her tuxedo. The tux had been Andrea's idea. One evening soon after Karen had proposed to Lily, Miranda had hosted a wine and cheese for the Sisters. Andrea had, for once, over-indulged and, slightly tipsy, shared the story of her heartbreak in high school. She had been dating a popular boy, and he had asked her to the prom. Just days before the big event, the young man had decided to dump Andrea and take a different girl. Lily had stepped in and insisted on escorting Andrea to the prom. Andrea spoke glowingly of how fierce Lily had looked in a tuxedo when she had picked her up to go to the prom. Karen's ears had perked up and she had looked at her lover speculatively. Karen later had approached Miranda about proper tailoring for tuxes for Lily and her "best man." Miranda had to admit that, after seeing Andrea in her tux, it was not only Lily who looked "fierce." She couldn't wait to get her partner home and strip her out of that garment.  
  
Getting a drink at the bar she ran into Natalie, who was laughing with one of the several women she was regularly seen on the arm of at events around town. Unlike the others in the circle of the Sisters, Natalie seemed perfectly happy concentrating on her career and having a number of lovers whom she dated.   
  
Natalie's circle seemed completely interchangeable in the Manhattan social scene. Natalie would escort one woman one night and another the next. The night after that, the two who had hung on Natalie's arm would be seen out together at some other event. Miranda and Andrea had, at an extremely boring function one evening, jokingly tried to figure out how many women were in this polyamorous circle that Natalie had created. They gave up counting at twelve.   
  
Natalie turned from her date and raised her drink, as if in toast, toward Miranda and grinned. “You should be sweating, Miranda,” the woman said cheekily. "Your Andy is likely getting all sorts of ideas from tonight. I know that I ran into Milli while she was out scouting engagement rings just a few days ago. Cynthia's time as a free woman is almost up if she doesn't start running now.”  
  
Natalie's present date looked at Natalie with wide, scared eyes, obviously knowing Miranda's reputation as Miranda leaned in and air-kissed Natalie on the cheek. “Who says it's Andrea getting ideas?” she asked in the quiet voice that terrified so many. “And who says that it shouldn't be her that should be looking for an exit strategy?”   
  
Natalie burst out laughing. “So did I miss you when I ran into Milli shopping for an engagement ring?” she asked, motioning to the bartender for another drink she obviously didn't need.  
  
Miranda sipped her scotch, looked at Natalie's date's eyes, and answered the question. “Please, Natalie. You should know that I wouldn't buy anything off the shelf for Andrea if I were considering proposing. And I'm also sure you didn't see Millicent buy anything. She and I had lunch the other day with my custom jeweler and finalized the design for the ring she'll offer Cynthia. Don't you find that Millicent always seems more comfortable if she's involved in something that one of the rest of us is also actively engaged in?”  
  
Natalie's eyes opened wide and she nearly choked on her drink. Her date looked at Miranda wide-eyed. “I....” she started, curiosity obviously eating her up. “Forgive me, Ms. Priestly, but are you saying...?”  
  
Miranda looked playfully at Natalie's date and nodded. “Please, my dear, call me Miranda. And yes, I am, but I'd appreciate it if you kept that little tidbit of information under your hat until after the end of the month. They apparently have a charming tradition called Mischief Night in Andrea's home town of Cincinnati. It occurs the night before Halloween. I've decided to be mischievous myself and propose that night.”  
  
Natalie's date looked at the icon, goggle-eyed. Miranda Priestly had just shared a confidence with her. And earth-shattering, mind-blowing confidence. She looked at her escort as Miranda confidently leaned in again and brushed lips across Natalie's cheek. “You're with my dear friend, Natalie, my dear, so there is no question that you can be trusted.”  
  
As Miranda walked away, she could hear Natalie's escort gushing about the encounter.  
  
Cynthia and Millicent were seated in the second row on Karen's side of the sea of folding chairs the caterer had provided for wedding seating. They had decided on Karen's side by flipping a coin at the same wine and cheese gathering where Andrea had introduced the idea of Lily wearing a tux. They were terribly apologetic to Lily, who couldn't contain her laughter at the absurdity of their proffered apology. 

As she took a seat on Lily's side of the aisle, her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse and, withdrawing the device, snapped it open. “Miranda Priestly,” she said quietly.  
  
“Miranda,” Emily said from the other end of the call. “I've just received a most curious call from the publisher of Boise Weekly. It is apparently a small alternative press newspaper in the wilds of Idaho. The man was begging your forgiveness because it seems he has accidentally hired someone as a gossip columnist that you had blacklisted.”  
  
“Danielle Gold,” Miranda chuckled, her mood jubilant. “Emily, be a dear and have your assistant call him back. Tell him that I harbor no hard feelings toward his publication and that he's welcome to keep her as an employee if he so desires. But also tell him that if it were me, I'd personally vet every item she writes because she has a bad habit of shaping the truth to fit the story.”  
  
“I'll take care of it, Miranda,” Emily assured and disconnected the call.  
  
Miranda looked up and saw her beautiful Andrea, magnificent in her tuxedo, with Lily in her tux close behind. Miranda's mouth went dry and then began to water. _Get on with it,_ she thought to herself. _The sooner you and Karen are married, the sooner I can take Andrea home and tear that tux off her._  
  
***  
  
Heather lounged near one of the assistant desks in Miranda's office as Emily hung up the phone. The British woman glared at her and at the three assistants who worked in the office under both Miranda's and Emily's direction, currently trying desperately to not draw Emily's attention. Heather smiled, thinking about how she had thought that she'd had a hard lot when she was Miranda's second assistant and only answered to Miranda. These poor, hapless three answered to both Miranda and Emily, God help them. It was amazing that any one of the three had managed to last a day. She stretched and sighed loudly.  
  
Emily glared at her. “Don't you have somewhere to be other than bothering those of us who are working?” the Brit snapped in a snarky tone.  
  
“Nope,” Heather smiled. “If you remember, we, that's you and I, are supposed to meet some people for drinks.”  
  
Emily looked at the woman. “Can't you see I'm busy?” she said.   
  
Heather nodded. “Yes, you are, but it's also Saturday evening. I came in at six this morning, on a Saturday, to oversee the makeup and help you make sure that fiasco of a shoot done last week was corrected. Now, it's time for you to stop working and allow your poor, abused minions to go have some kind of life outside of the office."  
  
Emily glared, and Heather had to admit that the English woman was getting better and better at channeling Miranda. _Time to pull out the big guns,_ she thought to herself. “Did I mention that Nigel is coming tonight? And that he's bringing Orla? She has apparently been dying to see you again since you were so helpful when Miranda decided to give her a chance with her dress line and then when you chose her as the designer to be featured in the article about that ridiculous legging you created.”  
  
Emily looked up. “The most cutting edge designer in the world wants to see me?” she squeaked.  
  
Heather shrugged and dropped the volume of what she said so that only Emily could hear. “From what Nigel said, I think it's more like she wants to date you. She apparently has your pictures from the _Runway_ article framed and hung in her workspace where she creates. Nigel says she speaks of you as her Muse. Sounds to me like she's got a bad case of hero worship going on.”  
  
“Nonsense!” Emily snapped and looked at Heather for a long moment. With a quickening heartbeat she saw no deception there. “Surely it's Miranda she idolizes,” Emily insisted, her tone now not quite so sure. “That would only be proper and fitting...”  
  
Heather smiled a small, wicked smile. “Whatever you say, Emily. But while Nigel says that Orla talks _to_ Miranda quite often, he has never mentioned her talking _about_ Miranda. And apparently she talks about _you_ quite a bit.”  
  
Emily glanced daggers at the other three women in the office. “Well?” she demanded loudly. “What are you waiting for? Coat, bag! April! The Book will be delivered to my apartment tonight. I will deliver it to Miranda's home when I meet with her tomorrow morning. That's all.” She turned and looked at Heather. "Well?" she said. "Let's go."  
  
***   
  
Miranda stretched and smiled. She felt like purring as would a pampered and contented house cat. Her Andrea lay sleeping, sated, in their bed with her head in Miranda's lap. Upon arriving home, Miranda had stripped her of her tuxedo and then literally tore the dress shirt from her body. Then she'd proceeded to make the woman she loved both moan and scream her name for several hours. Miranda lazily reached out and picked up her glass of surprisingly good wine off the bedside nightstand. It was quite inexpensive. Something Andrea had introduced her to, but she couldn't fault it. It was smooth on the tongue with hints of oak, berries, and chocolate. This wine had become one of her secret treasures, like her battered, plain gray bathrobe. Something shared only with her friends and her Andrea.   
  
She mused at the thought and went on to considered the changes in her life over the course of the last year. So much was different. Her position at _Runway_ was secure as she now had the C.E.O.'s backing for most anything she chose to do. Irv had stopped fighting her and started crowing to the board of directors about the rising profits of _Runway_ after each quarterly financial report. With Irv no longer choosing to be a squeaky-wheel at every board meeting, the members of the board were fairly content to allow Miranda to go her own way and do as she pleased as long as the profits kept coming in. She and Irv has sold the board on the fine arts magazine idea in record time, and through a herculean effort they had established a framework for the magazine and acquired some of the most stellar and knowledgeable writers in the field of fine arts to staff the publication. Realistically they were easily still six months from the release of the first issue, but New York was already buzzing excitedly about the magazine and paid subscription numbers were well above the initial projections for the first year circulation. Her involvement in this venture while maintaining _Runway_ as the unquestioned premier fashion magazine was another feather in Miranda's cap and had added to her legend in the industry.  
  
For the first time in her life she had a circle of friends. People that didn't want anything from her other than her company. Even she and Nigel had become closer after he had left _Runway_ to head up Orla Frostrop's fashion house. Nigel regularly called, asking her for advice about how to handle this or that problem, and coffee together was now a several times a week affair. The women of the Sisterhood were regular visitors at her and Andrea's home as was she and Andrea at theirs'. Her relationship with Emily had blossomed once Emily had accepted that Miranda's position in regards to her had changed from one of boss to that of mentor. Emily now relished the almost impossible demands Miranda made on her because she realized that Miranda saw her worth and was forging her into what she could become. The British woman rose to each occasion, and Miranda could honestly say that she had yet to disappoint the Ice Queen. Emily was even getting press in the tabloids and Page Six since the paparazzi had begun to recognize the heir-apparent to _Runway_ magazine.   
  
Miranda had tried to step away from the rise of the Orla Frostrop fashion empire, but to be quite honest, Orla was having none of it. Miranda was the first to see new designs and had to be careful what she said about them because at even a hint of displeasure Orla would scrap an entire idea. Miranda was getting to do precisely what she'd long dreamed of. She was shaping the next fashion legend, and history would remember her part in the great Orla Frostrop's rise to becoming a fashion legend.   
  
Miranda's mentorships of Emily and Orla, however, were not her greatest sense of professional accomplishment in regard to someone in her life. Over the last year she had also been mentoring her Andrea, watching the young woman begin her journey towards becoming the premier fashion journalist in the world. Andrea was still at The Times as the newspaper's sole fashion journalist. The newspaper's internal investigation into the accusations Danielle Gold made against the paper had led to the paper's management determining that it was Danielle's actions and plotting that had created a hostile work environment. Management at The Times responded to this determination by terminating Danielle's employment. The lawsuit she had filed finally managed to get before a judge, who looked it over and then promptly threw it out as a nuisance suit, ordering all court costs and The Times' incurred legal fees be paid by Danielle. Andrea was a publishing phenomena whose readership was growing daily, pushing up the newspaper's circulation. The management of The Times responded to this state of affairs by doing all in their power to make sure that their rising star had everything she could want or need in the workplace.   
  
And, best of all, she and Andrea were together. Not for a furtive night or a closeted affair but for now and for the rest of their lives. Andrea loved her children as she did, and at the end of the month she would ask Andrea to marry her, exactly one night before Andrea was planning to ask her the same question. It was never wise to confide in a mother's children about when was the best time to ask for said mother's hand in marriage. Such things were simply too tempting for twelve-year-olds to reveal to said mother. Her girls had failed to keep that confidence and allowed Miranda to put the mischief into Mischief Night. She idly brushed her fingers through her beloved Andrea's hair which elicited a soft sound of contentment from the sleeping girl and caused her to snuggle a little farther into Miranda's lap. Miranda again sipped her glass of inexpensive wine and smiled. _No, life simply cannot get much better,_ she thought, smiling softly to herself. She would always be grateful that she had taken the risk of loving her Andrea.  
  
 _Fini_


End file.
